


I could love you if you let me

by alltoowell



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Glimpses of smut, mention/description of oral sex/fingering (f/f)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 138,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoowell/pseuds/alltoowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten months after everything, Alana gets a call from Margot Verger, prompting a chain of events that might finally lead to recovery-- for both of them. </p><p>Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fly the red flag, sound the warning gun

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so... this idea wouldn't leave me alone and now it's snowballed so far out of control I just had to post. I may be slow with updating at times, but I will finish this fic-- there are random, unedited drabbles on my computer to prove that. 
> 
> I had planned to upload a chapter every week or so, but I talked myself out of posting this so many times that that never happened, and I also happen to be going away for two weeks tomorrow, which means I'm posting a backlog of chapters tonight. This also means you may not get any more until after Christmas week, but I will do my best to reply to comments. 
> 
> I hope you like this as much as I liked writing it.

The healing power of time was incredibly overestimated, in her opinion. Funny how it had once been the antidote she prescribed most, before she realised first-hand just how ineffective it could really be.

Because a half a year should have been long enough to feel a fist of guilt lodged in her chest, squeezing at her heart; because a fortnight should have been all it took for her to forget the way Hannibal tasted, the way he smelt. Four months was a fair enough limitation on the bitterness that pulsed angrily through her veins at the thought of it all; after eight, surely she should not still have been waking mid-scream, in the throes of a horrible flashback: a nightmare where she felt her blood gurgling in her throat as she struggled for air, entire body numb and freezing.

Twenty-one weeks had her more or less recovered physically: walking independently with healed ribs and scars from surgery that didn’t need bandaged daily. She’d been foolish enough to assume that this milestone would mark the end of her pain, that her life might automatically begin again, that that meant the worst was over. In reality, the only significant change was that instead of having others feel sorry for her as they tiptoed around her hospital bed on eggshells, Alana was discharged to the privacy of her own home, where she was left to feel sorry for herself. 

She’d been confined to hospital for Spring and most of Summer, but by Autumn she was not the only one frustrated by imaginary guidelines imposed by their weary mind. She wasn’t very surprised to find Will on her doorstep one afternoon, dogs in tow, as he asked her for a final favour.

He didn’t say a lot about what he had planned, but she could imagine it was a scheme she wouldn’t approve of. He did not ask her to come with him, nor did she request he stay. Instead, she watched his dogs circle around Applesauce in recognition and waited for him to disappear, too.

When he promised her he would find Hannibal, she made no effort to voice a feigned confidence, simply meeting his eyes with a look of sheer disillusionment before retreating inside, leaving the door open for the dogs to follow suit. 

Things with Jack were slightly more complicated. He spent the majority of his indefinite suspension by the bedside of his wife and the rest of it in a bottle after she’d died.  He stopped by sometimes, between oblivions, to check on Alana: she sincerely felt like it should really be the other way around, but a resentful part of her wasn’t ready to be someone else’s crutch.

Their conversations were hung on awkward, accusing silences and false pleasantries. It was impossible to pinpoint who had stopped returning the courtesy calls first, but it hardly mattered. Their relationship had always been based on a mutual professional respect, and now that that was gone, the only thing they had in common were the mistakes they’d made. It wasn’t healthy to continue to toss around passive aggressive digs; it was too tempting to blame each other, when they should have been blaming themselves.

Her brothers wanted her to stay with one of them, and took turns checking in with her weekly to make sure she was eating and sleeping when she politely declined their dutiful offers. To their credit, they hadn’t stopped trying, even as six months turned to seven and then to eight. They weren’t entirely ignorant to what she’d been through, and made no insensitive suggestion that she should have been ‘over it’ by now, but Alana couldn’t help but notice the momentary flicker of disappointment that would cross their features each time they visited and she did not seem miraculously better, before they would remember to mask it with an expression of patience.

She couldn’t talk to the people who understood because their pain only made her feel worse, and she couldn’t talk to anybody who wasn't hurting because they  _ didn’t  _ understand _. _

It didn’t surprise her that she was the one left behind to wait it out, but being right about that didn't make her feel any better about what she'd done _wrong._

 

* * *

Of all the things Hannibal had destroyed, she felt her professional reputation was among the worst.

She had once had such a cluttered schedule she’d had to turn down teaching positions and cases. The FBI had been pulling her in one direction, one of the most prestigious Universities in the country in the other. It had been hectic at times, suffocating and stressful at worst, but now that neither one of these institutions were particularly keen to have any type of affiliation with her, she realized how lucky she’d been.

Georgetown had been tactful about it, at least. The head of the teaching  visited her in hospital, a ‘Get Well Soon’ card in both hands: one from the staff, one from her students. He suggested she take a leave of absence the first term back to recover, and that after Christmas, they would talk. It would be such a shame to loose her, he’d said kindly before he left.

She had yet to hear back from him.

She’d called once, and his receptionist had referred to her as ‘Ms’ Bloom, rather than ‘Dr.’ as she took her name. Pride had stopped her from calling again.

The FBI were crueller, although she felt slightly more deserving of their rejection. Kade Purnell's visit was among the first things Alana could recall about the early days after regaining consciousness: the way she’d said ‘I told you so,’ without actually using those words; the way she’d looked at Alana, like she was so stupid she was barely worth the begrudged pity.

It hadn’t mattered that Purnell had made mistakes too, or that she _should_ have listened to Jack. It became clear to Alana early on that she would be used as a scapegoat for the whole mess: the person who, after all, had invited Hannibal Lecter into the FBI and protested his innocence in the face of all reasonable doubt. She'd made it _easy_ for them.

She was warned against talking to anyone about the Bureau: the firm but veiled reminder that they could make her life more difficult if she betrayed their trust. It seemed ridiculously arrogant of them to assume they could possibly make things any  _ worse  _ for her, but she’d been too shocked to point this out.

Purnell had held eye contact with her as she affirmed that this was The Best Thing for everyone involved.

In hindsight, Alana wished she’d taken that as an opportunity to ask for a reference: for her own amusement, really, to watch Purnell scramble for a dry response she wouldn’t have had prepared.

(This kind of dry nonchalance came only from nine months of crying every time she replayed the conversation in her mind, of having to pretend that she'd accepted the injustice that was this last _shred_ of the way things used to be being taken from her.)

Logically, she knew her mind wasn’t in the right place for any kind of work. The thought of standing at the front of a lecture hall suddenly evoked a sense of panic within her; she could not consciously profile another killer while she was still so haunted by the last. She trusted herself much less than Purnell or anyone at Georgetown.

Between her now non-existent career and her even less impressive social life, Alana had grown used to going days without talking to someone else. If this whole affair had taught her anything, it was that all she really had was herself and in the face of this, she learned to direct the blame and self-loathing elsewhere. Isolation was a bridge burner, and she’d stepped over the ashes months ago.

Which was why it took her by surprise when, early spring, she came home from a walk with the dogs to find a missed call from an unknown number on her cellphone. Once, she might have re-dialled, but she knew whatever it was, it couldn’t be good news, and so she chose not to. She showered all thoughts of the call away and was pulling her wet hair back from her face when she heard it ringing again.

She was prepared to ignore it, but it had been so long since anyone had called her that the dogs were going ballistic at the sound. She could have simply silenced it, but it was the same unknown number as before, and without any reason besides curiosity, Alana answered.

“Hello?” The barking quietened to whines and yelps, but Alana crossed the living room and opened the front door to let them out all the same. They darted past her, one at a time, and she shivered as she adjusted the towel she'd wrapped herself in.

"Dr. Bloom?” A woman’s voice greeted, one Alana didn’t think she’d ever heard before.

“ Uh, yes?” She closed the door behind the last of the dogs and glanced at the clock. It was nearly eight: the flicker of hope that it might be someone from Georgetown dimmed. Admin would have waited until morning.

“Dr. Bloom, I wondered if you could help me. I’m a friend of a patient of yours: Catherine Schmeil?”

Alana felt goosebumps under her skin. She shivered a little more, hair still dripping. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss a patient with anyone, even if you are her friend.” 

In truth, there wouldn’t have been much to tell. It had been over a year since she last met with Catherine. She'd been the victim of a rapist Alana had profiled and helped to catch, and for the eighteen months following his imprisonment, Alana had counselled her. Then, Catherine had moved out of state for a job. The last time they’d spoke, Catherine had just bought her first apartment and was dating a man who she'd met in High School.

Lost in the recollection for a second, Alana allowed herself to feel something that might once have been pride. She’d helped _someone_ in the space of her ten year career, at least. 

She wished that could be enough.

“Of course not. I was actually calling to ask you if you would be available to meet with me.” The tone was so certain, so casual, Alana almost forgot this was a strange request.

“ Meet with you?"

“Catherine recommended you. She said you were wonderful.” There was a pause. “A little wonderful would be welcome, right now.”

Alana almost laughed out loud at this. Anyone who had been a part of her life in the last year would be able to offer a more accurate description of her. Hell, anyone who knew about what happened (and who  _ didn’t _ ?) would have defined her any other way than wonderful. Alana wasn’t quite sure if this was a joke or if the woman on the other end of the phone was living under a rock.

“ Listen-- I’m sorry. I’m not exactly practising at the moment.” Alana waited for a response, a bumbling apology as the woman realized she was in fact  _ that  _ Dr. Bloom and it was all a mistake.

The recall never came. “If you’d like, I could call one of my colleagues for you--”

“\-- I don’t trust easily, Dr. Bloom,” the woman interrupted, impatience causing her tone to curl up at the end of her words: pages of a worn book. “And I would be requesting house calls if the therapy were to become permanent. You understand then, why I take Catherine’s recommendation of you so seriously?

For ten seconds, Alana felt like a scolded child. She wondered who the hell this woman was, and why she had the power to make her feel like an even greater disappointment that she already was.

“I understand, of course, Ms.-- uh, I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” the woman corrected curtly. “I would feel uncomfortable disclosing personal details to someone I may never know.”

Alana was beginning to believe that this woman really did have serious issues with trust. “Well, I do understand that this is difficult for you, but without your details I won’t be able to pass you onto a colleague.”

“I’d prefer to discuss this face-to-face. Surely a consultation would help you to better determine which psychiatrist would be a better fit for me?”

Suspicion had the hair on her arms standing up on ends. Outside, one of the dogs barked, and Alana jumped in spite of herself. Before she could hang up, the woman spoke again. “I’ve done my research, Dr. Bloom,” she said frankly, bluntly eradicating any question Alana had over how ill-formed she may be. “From what I’ve heard and read, you’re one of the best psychiatrists in the state.” As her tone lowered, Alana felt something inside her pang. Sympathy. “I’ve debated calling for weeks now, and I can assure you, if I weren’t desperate I would not be bothering you.”

Alana had no idea what the woman had been though, but the weight of her words, the emotionless tone, said more than a brief explanation could. Whoever she was, she was utterly defeated: it was not the kind of thing you could act-- or, Alana thought,  _ recognize--  _ without experience.

Alana had long abandoned the hope that she could ever really save anyone, but she didn’t want to have to admit that what she’d been through had forced her to stop trying.

She’d let Hannibal strip her of too much already.

“I don’t have an office,” Alana said, reluctance finding it’s way into her tone. “It would have to be somewhere public. Are you in Virginia?”

“ I can be,” the woman replied cryptically. She suggested the name of a quiet coffee shop twenty minutes from Alana’s home, and when Alana asked her when she wanted to meet, she announced that tomorrow would be perfect.

She didn’t sound eager, per say, but certainly forward. Alarm bells were sounding in Alana’s head, but she told herself the sooner they met the better-- she would have less time to talk herself out of it.

Time agreed upon and a hasty goodbye added, Alana was ready to hang up when she heard a whispered, “Thank you,” that echoed in her mind long after she was left with only the dial tone. 

 


	2. We're on the road to ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to my lovely beta Shea for the majority of these chapters.

She had a knack for being early, regardless of how long she spent deciding what to wear or stuck in mid-morning traffic. There had been times, when her life had been peppered with meetings and classes and lunch dates, that this had been a blessing: today, sitting alone at a window table fifteen minutes ahead of the agreed time, it felt plain _depressing_.

It was good practice though, for a patient with trust issues. She didn’t want to keep her waiting, but equally, she didn’t want to show up so early it would look like she was desperate for a distraction from her own life: even if she was, just a little bit.

She sipped her coffee and pretended to be preoccupied with her phone. A pop-up told her she had another new email, bringing the grand total up to 138. At first, she’d been too busy pushing herself to the point of exhaustion with physical therapy to sift through the messages: at some point, it had become such a daunting task that the mere thought of it made her stomach tie itself into knots. It was so irrational and unlike her but it felt safer too, like as long as she didn’t look at them, she could pretend all the official documentation of her various rejections didn’t exist.

“Dr. Bloom?” She shut her phone off before looking up, the fake smile she’d quickly pasted on at the sound of the expected voice vanishing just as suddenly when she made eye contact with the woman standing in front of her.

She’d never met Margot Verger, but she knew _of_ her. The Vergers were Freddie Lounds’ new favourite focus after all, now the sensation of Alana, Will and Jack’s crappy lives had fizzled out. If it weren’t for the pictures in the last three Tattler updates, Alana might not have realized at all.

Phone still in hand and coffee forgotten, Alana got to her feet shakily. “This was a mistake. I should go.”

“Don’t,” Margot Verger said simply, slipping out of her coat-- seemingly oblivious to Alana’s discomfort. “Everything I said last night was the truth.”

“You neglected to mention who you were,” Alana reminded her tersely. As Margot sat across from her, she too felt compelled to sit back down-- if only because her momentary outburst had earned them stares from the baristas at the counter.

“I predicted you would react like this if I did,” Margot replied. Her hair fell around her shoulders as she glanced in the direction of the people staring, waving one of them over to take her order.

When he’d left, Alana leaned forward. “Listen, I don’t know what you want from me but--”

“--A _psychiatrist_ ,” Margot replied, giving Alana a measured look. “Is that not what you are?”

_In a name._ “ Yes,” she said, exasperated already, “but I’m not _yours_.”

“No. Mine is currently... _unavailable_ , as you’re quite aware.” A small shrug from Margot. “Dr. Lecter's therapy was beneficial to me in a variety of ways, however, I still feel I could benefit from having someone to confide in.”

Alana just stared. “I can’t be that person.” When Margot blinked at her, expectantly, she shook her head firmly. “We don’t even know each other.”

“Is that not exactly the point of therapy?”

“We don’t know each other, but we know _of_ each other; we were involved with the same people. It isn’t ethical.” The barista returned with Margo’s cappuccino.  
“In my experience, psychiatrists do not always air on the side of ethics.”

“Well,  _I_ do,” Alana said tightly. “And I can’t foresee this being anything but a disaster.”

Margot took a slow, steady sip from her mug. “I am willing to pay upfront, of course.”

Alana knew, like most people did, that the Verger’s had no shortage of money. It was a family empire, but from what Alana had heard about Margot’s brother and his current condition, she could guess Margot had the upper hand and was enjoying exercising it.

Alana needed money: she had too many medical bills still withstanding, because there were certain things insurance did not cover, and she didn’t have a source of income right now. She was living off savings-- thank God she’d always been sensible with her money-- but burning through years of hard work on dog food and bills was a new kind of dissatisfaction.

However much she needed the money, she needed to be back at work more. She hadn’t imagined any patient would willingly seek her out, and even if there was likely more to this than a genuine desire for therapy, she couldn’t help but feel slightly _flattered_ that _someone_ trusted her professional opinion.

What all of this didn’t do was eradicate the fact that it was a recipe for destruction. Being sick and tired of her own problems didn’t mean she was emotionally ready to take on someone else’s; she couldn’t even rely on Margot to be a distraction, because even if they didn’t talk about Hannibal, he would loom over their conversations, he would linger in the shadows as they spoke, he would slot into the spaces between their words.

“I can understand you’re apprehensive,” Margot said, sounding anything but understanding as she interrupted Alana’s thoughts. “There is no ulterior motive here. It’s not a trap.” 

Alana blinked at her. “I wasn’t--”

“Oh, please. I can’t be the only one with trust issues.”

“I _don’t_ have trust issues.”

Margot’s smile was condescending: her quirked eyebrow a challenge. She let Alana’s lie hang between them as she sipped her coffee.

Alana couldn’t start to move on with Hannibal still tainting her every move; she couldn’t let him dictate her relationships with people going forward.

A thought only now occurred to her. “On the phone, you mentioned one of my old patients. Do you even _know_ Catherine?”

“She emailed a newspaper in response to speculation about your professional capabilities.” Margot took a long sip from her cup. “I could tell by the way she'd elevated you that she was a previous patient.”

Alana didn't know whether to be impressed by or afraid of Margot's cunning. It was true that the mention of Catherine had given her theatrics on the phone merit, but it was also true that what she'd done was unnaturally sneaky.

“If I agree to this,” Alana said, the words coming before she could stop them, “it’s purely temporary. Until I find someone more permanent to take you on-- alright?”

Margot didn’t dignify this with a response. She opened her purse and took out a small book and pen. Only when she flipped it open did Alana realize what she was doing: writing her a check.

“Um, no,” Alana said quickly. “That’s not how this works. I’m only agreeing to a few casual sessions. You’ll have to talk to talk to your insurance company if this becomes permanent.”

Margot seemed slightly surprised, but she tucked the book away again and didn’t comment. “I feel the need to remind you that I will be requiring house calls.” When Alana didn’t reply, lost in thought, Margot added flippantly, “I’m sure you heard about my brother.”

Alana cleared her throat, awkward. “Yes. I--I’m aware.” She didn’t know the full story, or really much more than what Freddie reported, which was probably only a quarter of the truth anyway. What she did know was that Margot and Mason had a very strange relationship, overshadowed only by the unconvention of their respective relationships with Will and Hannibal.

It made her immediately uncomfortable. She found herself finding reasons to look away. As she did so, she felt Margot’s eyes on her.

“Do you have my address?” Margot said, after a long moment.

Alana looked back, shook her head once before reaching for her phone. She opened the note section and handed it to Margot, who took it with fingers that were painted black and shaped perfectly; hands smaller than Alana’s, and nimbler as they began to type.

“Is there a particular day that works for you?” Margot asked, and Alana’s mind was still struggling to catch up. “A time?”

Alana didn’t want to admit that she was embarrassingly free. She feigned deep thought. “Friday could work,” she suggested diplomatically. Three days would give her time to figure out what the hell she was doing, but not enough time to fully talk herself out of it. “Friday morning?”

She expected Margot to object to this-- surely caring for her physically dependent brother and controlling their family business must have made her an incredibly busy woman who couldn’t revolve a weekday around a trial run of therapy-- but she nodded, eyes meeting with Alana’s again. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Something in her tone-- or was it her words?-- suggested to Alana that Margot was not convinced she would actually show up. The glint in her green eyes had Alana believing it was an attempt at reverse psychology, an upfront manipulation, rather than a sincere doubt in her professional dedication. Therefore, she wasn’t insulted: but she _was_ intrigued, even as she ducked her head and felt a blush rising in her cheeks under Margot’s weighty gaze.

“I should go,” Alana said, taking one final sip from her half-drank coffee. “I have, um, an appointment.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to add an explanation; didn’t know why Margot intimidated her to such an extent.

Margot sat up a little straighter in her chair. “You said you aren’t practising anymore.”

Oh. _Right_ . Fuck. How had she forgotten _that_ ? “I’m not, I have another kind of appointment.” She thought quickly. “It’s, um, _medical._ ”

God, she was going to hell.

Margot didn’t break eye contact. “Oh,” she said, not a hint of embarrassment for questioning her, and Alana’s gut told her it was because she didn’t believe the lie. “Well, good luck then.”

Alana grabbed her back and dug around inside for her purse, looking up briefly just in time to catch Margot waving her hand. “I’ll get this,” she said tightly, leaving no room for argument. “You should go.”

“You really don’t have to do that--”

“You won’t accept a check,” Margot reminded her, dry and prickly as though Alana had made her life so much more difficult by seeking to do this legally. “It’s the least I can do.”

Alana forced a smile: Margot did not bother to return it. “Uh, well, thank you.”

She walked out of the coffee shop, feeling the heat of Margot’s eyes watching her even after she’d stepped outside into the cold and quickly made her way down the street.

 

* * *

 

For the next two days, Alana pushed Margot Verger to the back of her mind. Or at least, she made a conscious effort to.

It was difficult when she didn’t have much else to think about. The dogs kept her busy, at least. They’d gotten so used to being passed from Will’s house to hers that even Winston had stopped running away. Applesauce was the only one who took some adjusting, but even she was so enamoured with the company of her old friends to fuss about having to share Alana again.

While the dogs chased each other around her garden on Thursday evening, Alana sat with her brother and allowed her thoughts to drift. Replaying the conversation with Margot in her mind had her feeling increasingly ridiculous. It had been so long since she’d really interacted with someone new, and she allowed her suspicions to overshadow the reason she’d even agreed to meet her: because Margot said she needed help, and because that was still the only job Alana had ever been qualified to do.

“Al?”

She blinked, Adam’s voice tearing her from her thoughts. The expression on his face told her he’d asked her a question. “Um, yes?” she tried, a stab in the dark, while she took a swig of beer and tried to remember the last thing she’d been listening to him say.

“Where did you go?” Adam tilted his head, a shaky smile on his lips. “I lost you.”

Adam was a worrier: he called her twice a week, made an effort to drive far out of his way to see her if she missed a call or seemed what he dubbed ‘too quiet.’ He was a researcher in Washington’s National History Museum, but Alana had always secretly thought he’d missed his calling: he would have _so_ suited to a profession caring for people.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She sat back, sinking into the couch as she tucked her legs underneath herself. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Do you remember Mom’s glass vase? It was red, I think. A burgundy colour. She loved it.”

Alana blinked at her brother. “Uh, I think so.” Just how long had she been lost in thought?

“We were just kids, and Andy dared me to put it on my head and balance it there. Obviously, it was a really dumb idea, but I did it anyway, because I wanted him to think I was cool.”

Alana smiled at the recollection. She only barely remembered the actual incident, but the competition between her brothers was something so permanent it was amusing.

“And you watched this whole thing go down, _warning_ me it was a stupid thing to do, but I did it anyway. The vase smashed, naturally, and we ran and hid.” Adam’s chuckled, and Alana could still see the shattering of the glass in her mind’s eye: the way the three of them had scattered just like the shards of the vase. “Mom demanded to know who had done it, and Andy told her it was the cat. She didn’t believe us, I mean--” he broke off, laughing at the ridiculousness of what they had thought at the time was a foolproof excuse.

“Who would?” Alana said warmly.

“Exactly. She let it go though, because she couldn’t punish one of us without punishing us all. Andy and me counted it as a lucky escape, but you had nightmares for a week-- you felt _that_ bad. By the time you cracked and told her it was me, she’d almost forgotten about the whole thing.”

Alana raised an eyebrow, smiling reluctantly as he broke of laughing for a third time. “Fantastic. We can add ‘bad sister’ to my credentials, then.”

Adam rolled his eyes, taking a long sip of beer from the same bottle he’d been drinking for the last hour. “My original point was that you’re a horrible liar. So when you say that everything’s fine, I can tell straight away that you’re bullshitting.”

“Where were your great powers of perception when I needed them?” Alana asked innocently, earning a ‘don’t-you-dare-joke-about-it’ glare for her efforts.

“Just talk to me. I know you don’t want to lean on anyone, but I’m your _brother_.” When she didn’t respond, Adam’s eye flickered to the bottle in his hands. He ran one finger around the rim of the top, a perfect circle as he obviously struggled to vocalise whatever was coming next. “Andy heard something about Lecter making contact with the FBI. He thinks he might call you, or something.”

Alana stiffened. “He hasn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m just saying that if he did, and you didn’t know what to do--”

“I’d know exactly what to do,” Alana interrupted. “I would call the police.”

“Well, yeah, but if you _couldn’t--_ ”

“-- but I _would._ I know what side I’m on, Adam.” She hated that people thought this: that even her own family saw her as some lovesick fool who had a world of chances for everyone. “Anyway, I highly doubt he would contact me.”

Jack, maybe, to tease him. Or Will, for...well, whatever. But not her. For one thing, she doubted she’d ever really been that high on his list of priorities. For another, she hadn’t had much mercy for him the night she’d pulled a gun on him: that anger hadn’t dried up, even if most of her other feelings toward the man had. She’d learned that love could turn to hate frighteningly quickly under the right circumstances.

“Well, _whatever--_ you could still talk to me,” Adam clarified awkwardly. “I wouldn’t judge you.”

She took the silence that proceeded to count back from ten. Her brother wasn’t intentionally making her feel like shit: he just wanted to help.

“I know you wouldn’t. But that’s not what-- I mean, I have other stuff on my mind right now.”

She’d thought this would be the end of it, but her words seemed to positively elate her brother. Adam raised an eyebrow hopefully. “Oh yeah?”

Well, shit. “Uh, I can’t really talk about it.” His expression shifted back to concern, so she added, “It’s a patient.”

The smile was back in place. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. If this was all difficult for her to handle, she couldn’t imagine how it felt to be the one tasked with trying to comfort her.

“You’re seeing a patient?” He set his beer on the coffee table and moved closer to her. “Oh, Al, that’s great. I told you it would just take some time.”

She almost felt guilty for not mirroring his excitement. “It’s not that simple. I-I’m worried I won’t be able to help her.”

“Of course you will.” Misunderstanding her-- or maybe, now that she thought about it, understanding her perfectly, he continued, “Lecter might have been your mentor, but the career you built, the things you did both inside and outside of the FBI to help people-- that was all you. Your abilities don’t change just because he did.”

She’d waited a long time to hear somebody voice that kind of certainty in her. He might have been her brother, and he might have only been saying it out of familial obligation, but it was the reassurance she’d been needing all along: the frustrations she’d battled for months being put to rest finally because _someone_ saw more to her than what she had done wrong.

She decided then that was okay if she questioned Margot’s motives for seeking further therapy: it was okay if she wasn’t comfortable with the cold way Margot spoke to her. It was okay if she had been momentarily flustered in the face of a stranger’s manipulation.

It was completely okay, _because_ Alana was a psychiatrist, not _in spite_ of that fact; because a part of her job meant seeing through the manipulation and the facade and the complexity that Margot presented, to the person beneath who was crying out for help. She’d done the same thing dozens of times before: Margot Verger was no different from any other patient, aside from the fact she’d been left high and dry by her previous psychiatrist.

“What if I’m doing it for the wrong reasons?” This was what she kept coming back to, no matter how hard she tried to duck it. Because now, she knew now how it felt to be used.

“Don’t you think the fact that you’re so worried about helping her says enough about your intentions?” Adam’s hand squeezed her arm.

Alana thought that maybe if she took the situation with detachment, there wouldn’t be a problem. If she couldn’t--- well, then, she’d call somebody who could, leaving Margot in the kind of capable hands she deserved while she licked her wounds and went back to salvaging her pride.

She couldn’t wait keep waiting for things to change: if she wanted a distraction, if she wanted her life back, she had to go get it herself. She’d already put too much of herself in the hands of the men who were now nowhere to be found.

She could handle Margot and, more than that, if she ever wanted her life back, she would _have_ to.

By the time the dogs returned, barking around the door for her to let them in and then practically clambering over each other to get to the warmth of the house, Alana had already convinced herself she’d been overly sensitive upon meeting Margot for the first time; that their first official session would be different because this time Alana had perspective on her professional self-confidence.

The only way Margot could hurt that was if she let her.


	3. Haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds?

The Verger’s estate was everything Alana had expected it to be: acres and acres of green for so far she had no idea where it even began; the impressive stable and adjacent sheds; a collection of smaller properties around the main mansion.

The driveway captivated her: it had seemed endless as she drove it, although her apprehension may have been partly to blame for that. Tiny, pale pink pebbles made up the ground underneath her car tyres, each identical from what she could tell. It was the kind of intricate detail she always admired, but would never have had the time or patience to re-create.

She suspected the front door was mahogany, and approximately three times the size of hers. As well as a doorbell, there was black knocker in the shape of a ‘V,’ a crest of some sort acting as it’s backing. Alana assumed this unnerved most people: she merely snorted at the pretentiousness of it all.

She ignored it and rang the doorbell, deciding a knocker on the door of a house this big couldn’t be anything but decorative. Then, she took a few steps back and fixed her jacket. She was about to ring it a second time when the door opened and there Margot stood: black fitted trousers, a simple white blouse, but more gold jewellery than Alana would have considered ‘casual.’

“Dr. Bloom,” Margot greeted evenly. “You’re early.”

Typical. Alana dug her hands deeper into her pockets. “Sorry about that.” She glanced behind her, the vast array of trees with the frosted sky as it’s backdrop: the type of view she imagined no one could tire of. “I thought maybe we could go for a walk.”

She’d planned this, on the drive over, as a distancing mechanism. Inside, there would be personality bleeding from every room and family photographs and perhaps even Margot’s brother. Alana needed to maintain objectivity. Until she had the situation under control, she needed the intimacy, the _reminders,_ kept to a minimum.

Margot’s eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression this was therapy, not a tour.” She eyed Alana up and down, smirking ever so slightly when she shivered under her gaze and disguised it by rubbing her hands together. “You seem cold. Wouldn’t you prefer to come in?”

 _Absolutely not_ , but Alana couldn’t say that without sounding unprofessional. She was more than a little thrown off by Margot’s blatancy and the fact she now probably sounded like a complete idiot.

Margot didn’t wait for her to reply or bother to usher her inside before disappearing, leaving the door open for Alana to follow. She did so with the same amount of apprehension that an animal released from capture felt pulsing through their veins upon returning to the spot of their undoing: with the overwhelming feeling that she should know better.

She'd expected halls lined with pictures in shiny frames, extravagant wallpaper, imported carpet. Instead, the hallway was baron, cold, _plain:_ white walls and marble floors; pictures of plants hung alongside a single mirror. It felt staged and empty, devoid of personality and familiarity and the simple homely feel that came from stepping over the threshold into another person's space.

Margot came to a stop in the parlour, motioning for Alana to sit in the armchair by the window as she crossed the room to make them something to drink.

“What would you like?” Margot asked, her back to Alana, and she took this as an opportunity to assert her desire for control-- in quite possibly the weakest way, if she was being honest-- and took the chair by the door instead.

“Water would be great, thanks.”

Margot glanced over her shoulder at Alana, like she was trying to gauge if she was joking or not. “Are you sure?” she pressed incredulously.

“Yes,” Alana replied, a touch too defensively. She corrected herself with a weak smile. “I’m driving.”

Margot gave a little shrug and turned back to the glass tumblers. She poured herself something that looked like whiskey and then disappeared from the room with it.

Alana waited awkwardly. Somewhere above, a floorboard creaked: her heart was in her mouth and her stomach lurched-- she thought, with regret, that she should have brought her gun, and in the next second wished she’d eaten breakfast.

The state of her thoughts would have been hilarious were they not so reflective of the person she’d unwillingly become: practically paranoid.

“Ice?” Margot’s voice startled her enough to jump. The sideways glance she got for this had her wanting to leave, then and there. Which one of them seemed to need therapy more?

When she didn’t answer-- couldn’t answer, really, because there was a lump in her throat and she couldn’t risk her eyes watering if she tried to talk around it-- the other woman simply handed her the drink as it was. “I suppose it’s just water glorified,” she said, a flippant comment that Alana appreciated nonetheless, because at least it hadn’t been the dig that she’d expected.

“You don’t mind if I drink, do you?” She sat in the chair across from Alana, crossing her legs but not relaxing into the leather.

Alana didn’t need to sneak a glance at her watch to know it couldn’t be any later than ten thirty.

“Did you drink during your sessions with your last psychiatrist?” She knew she shouldn’t go there, especially not this early into their conversation, but she couldn’t help it. She’d already asked the question before her mind told her she shouldn’t have.

“Dr. Lecter had... _unusual_ methods,” a colossal understatement, but Alana let it slide, “but intoxicating his patients was not one of them.” Margot tilted her head, ever so slightly. “Of course, it’s possible I may have been the exception.”

“Does it make you feel more comfortable?”

“That I may have been the exception?”

“To drink,” Alana clarified, with another tight smile. “It’s a little... _unorthodox_ to conduct a therapy session when one of the parties is impaired. I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Doesn’t it stand to reason, Dr. Bloom, that one of the parties will always be impaired?” Margot took a sip from her glass, pointedly. “I requested your professional help-- surely that immediately indicates an uneven playing field?”

It did, but not in the way Margot assumed. Alana shifted in her chair: crossing and uncrossing her legs. “I wouldn’t think of it like that. I don’t want you to feel like you’re at some sort of disadvantage.”

Margot’s eyes gleamed with something Alana couldn’t read. She took another sip of whiskey, and then she carefully set the glass on a nearby bookshelf. “I don’t see it as a disadvantage,” she said.

Alana chose not to dwell on that statement: it held too many implications, which was probably exactly why Margot had thrown it out there. Alana sat back in her chair. “What did you want to talk about, Margot?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you needed someone to confide in.” Alana met Margot’s eyes and this time, she held them. “I’m listening to you.”

There was a silence that may have been a little stunned, if the way Margot looked away was any indication. Alana wondered, briefly, if the woman had ever really heard that from someone else before-- even Hannibal.

“I’m sure you know I have a... _difficult_ relationship with my brother.” Margot’s eyes drifted upwards. “Recently, things have changed somewhat.”

“Oh?” Alana took a mental note of the fact despite the fact Margot referred to the relationship as ‘change _d_ ,’ she still grounded her statements about it in the present tense. “Do you want to start from the beginning?”

“You already _know_.”

“Not enough,” Alana countered. “And not from you. I want your perspective.”

“My _perspective_ is that my brother was a dangerous man, until he was stopped.” Alana didn’t miss the wistful glance Margot cast in the direction of her glass as she laced her hands together in her lap. “There isn’t much else I wish to revisit.”

“Then don’t.” It wasn’t unusual for a patient to shy away from sensitive issues during an introductory session, even if the patient in question had been the one to push for the therapy. “You could just talk, if you’d like. You could tell me about _you_.”

“I won’t waste your time,” Margot said, getting to her feet and moving to stand by the window. She looked out at the empty land and absent-mindedly fingered the hem of her blouse. “I may not have been completely clear about my intentions. There is something else I’d like from you.”

Alana was surprised she’d decided to cut the crap so quickly: she’d imagined Margot would be offering her vague and cryptic answers for a little longer. Then, she supposed, the woman was clearly deflecting.  
  
“And what would that be?”

Margot’s eyes flickered to her in surprise. Obviously, she’d expected her ulterior motive to be news to Alana. Just a quickly as her indifferent expression slipped, it was replaced again. “I’ve been investigating my options, with regards to my brother.”

“ _And_?” Alana didn’t bother to pretend she knew where this was going. There was no shame in being completely confused by someone who worked so hard to complicate things, she assured herself.

“I’ve found a hospital in Illinois. They require an independent evaluation prior to admission.”

“A _psychiatric_ hospital?” Alana blinked in Margot’s direction. This time, the woman simply turned her head away, pressing it against the window pane. Alana could read between the lines: if an evaluation was warranted, Mason would not go willingly. “If your brother doesn’t think--”

“-- Mason doesn’t know what’s best for him,” Margot interrupted. “He’s been through a trauma. He requires help. Surely you agree?”

“I would have to talk to Mason about that.” When Margot gave her a ‘ _well, obviously,_ ’ look, Alana’s stomach turned. “I _can’t_ talk to Mason. I’m sorry, but if this is crossing a line then acting as your brother’s psychiatrist would be disregarding it altogether.”

“I’m not asking you to be his psychiatrist,” Margot’s head snapped up, like the prospect was one she rejected with great animosity. “I’m asking you to evaluate him. _Once_. At my request.”

“I can’t do that without talking to him first, without him being aware of my intentions and without his _consent_.” It was obvious this was not the answer the other woman wanted. She folded her arms and seemed to stand a little straighter. Alana felt a headache throb between her temples. In a softer voice, she said, “Mason’s the only family you have left, isn’t he, Margot?”

Margot turned to her then, a chilling darkness in her eyes. “We all have our cross to bear,” she said simply.

“Have you thought about how you would feel if he wasn’t around?”

“I won't say I haven't _considered_ it,” Margot said, the ghost of a wistful smile on her face. “Let’s just say it would be of great benefit to both of us if Mason were to spend some time elsewhere.”

She might have been saying the right thing, but her act was far from persuading. In fact, it was hardly even an act at all-- Margot did not seem concerned with convincing Alana that she truly had her brother’s health at heart, and that just might have been the most unsettling thing of all. There was nothing more concerning than someone who didn’t feel the need to pretend. “Why do you want to send your brother away, Margot?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Margot walked back to her chair and sat down. “It’s too difficult.”

“Caring for him?” Margot didn’t reply, but Alana took that as an affirmative, suspecting the other woman probably wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to correct her. “Do you have much help?”

“Oh yes,” Margot said, resentment dripping from the words. “Mason has made remarkable progress thanks to the practical help he’s received.”

“Surely then, it doesn’t make sense to move him?” It was then Alana realized that was exactly the point: Margot didn’t _want_ Mason to recover. “Margot, no respected psychiatric hospital will admit an unwilling patient with the physical demands that your brother has.”

“It doesn’t need to be a _respected_ establishment,” Margot reasoned, with a half-shrug.

Alana sincerely didn’t know whether to laugh or cry out in despair.

Margot didn’t wait for a response, she continued, “and that would be why they require an evaluation.” She nodded toward Alana, a subtle ‘ _this is where you come in,_ ’ just in case Alana wasn't following. “We can negotiate the conditions, of course.” 

“I couldn’t possibly evaluate your brother now that I’m questioning your intentions.”

“Then don’t question them,” was Margot’s tight solution. “Forget we had this conversation.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “His meeting will be over in a half hour. You can see him then.”

His... _meeting_? “Your brother still runs the family business?”

Margot’s eyes sparkled with something that might have been envy. “Not for much longer, if he’s declared mentally incapable. I suppose I’ll have to take over, as his next of kin.”

“I get the feeling that wouldn’t be such an imposition for you,” Alana said. “Is that what you want? The business?”

“It’s not the business. It’s _everything_.”

“It’s important to you that you take over from your brother?”

“Quite.”

“And why is that?”

Margot looked at Alana like she’d spoken in a different language. For a split second, Alana believed she might be able to trick the truth out of Margot, but then her frown was replaced with another cryptic smile. “I believe myself to be much more deserving than Mason.”

“Have you discussed this with your brother?” Alana asked. “He must need your help now, more than ever. Couldn’t you come to an arrangement?”

Margot’s expression was blank again in a flash. “They really didn’t tell you about us, did they Dr. Bloom?” This time, she sounded genuinely surprised, or as close to it as Alana imagined she would ever get with someone who had so many guards in place.

Alana had hoped they might be able to get to the end of the session without acknowledging Hannibal or Will. She’d planned to dodge any references to them, if she needed to. But the weight to Margot’s words had her lifting her chin a fraction, narrowing her eyes out of the kind of curiosity she knew she should have left at home.  
  
“They don’t tell me anything,” Alana said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She cleared her throat, her cheeks burning. “I mean-- no, no they didn’t tell me very much.”

“Dr. Lecter didn’t--?”

“-- no,” Alana cut in, before Margot could elaborate. “We didn’t discuss patients.” _Except Will._

There was a part of Alana that thought if she’d spent more time talking about work and less time fucking him she might have noticed something was amiss much sooner. But then, their relationship had been professional for years and she hadn’t seen it.

“Well, then,” Margot said, after a long moment. “You have a lot to catch up on.”

* * *

Dr. Bloom left with the insistence that she would act only as _Margot’s_ psychiatrist. Margot hadn’t imagined the woman would be so ungrateful about work, considering the apparent knock her career had taken lately.

She’d had a notepad with her-- Margot had noticed as she was digging for her car keys in her purse-- yet not once had she taken it out, taken notes. Margot wondered if it was because she was still finding her feet again or because the things she’d heard weren’t easy to forget.

She hadn’t told her about Mason, nor did sheplan to, either: Margot needed Dr. Bloom to know, to understand, and to agree to help her, just as Dr. Lecter had. She didn’t have time to waste with the fresh bout of therapy relating to past traumas.

“I know we haven’t scratched the surface yet, Margot, but I think you did the right thing reaching out,” the woman said on her doorstep, and it sounded so rehearsed, so automatic: something she’d said to other patients perhaps, after difficult first sessions.

Margot maintained a stony stare. “Goodbye, Dr. Bloom.”

She hadn’t anticipated the other woman would be quite so reluctant to the prospect of seeing Mason, but then she hadn’t factored in her feelings. Still, Margot did not feel defeated. Psychiatrists only _really_ had the moral compass they wished to impart onto their patients, after all. It couldn’t be that hard to persuade in reverse, particularly when Margot had such valid reasoning and Dr. Bloom was, by her own admission, already partial to her point of view.

Their house was overa hundred years old, but it had been kept museum-like. It looked as though no one lived here at all, and she’d watched Dr. Bloom make a similar deduction as she stepped over the threshold. It might have seemed strange to her, but it was all Margot had ever known, the only home she’d ever had, and the only example of one she’d ever really seen, and as such she didn’t give much thought to it.

Which was perhaps why she was not on guard for the squeak of rubber against wood where a warning creek should have been had the stairs not been kept in such vigorous condition, if the only footsteps ever to run up or down them had not been fleeting and delicate in the quest for escape. Because Margot did not hear the tell-tale signs of another presence as she stood in the doorway and watched Dr. Bloom’s car disappear from the driveway, she was startled when a voice behind her spoke.  
  
“Your brother requests to see you,” Marcello said, thick and harsh leaving no room for her to argue: as per.

Denying demands like that would have complicated things, although Margot still considered it sometimes. Mason may not have have the mobility to hurt her anymore, but his men were still quite able: the faded bruises all along her arms were evidence enough of this, from the first-- and last-- time she’d dared test this.

Marcello did not say anything else, but she knew how this worked by now. With the front door locked, Margot turned and walked up the stairs, Marcello moving only to follow her closely, one step behind.

Mason was by his desk, the faint buzz of his electric wheelchair the only sound as it spun around to face her. Marcello stood by the closed door with one of the other men whose names Margot knew but did not deem worthy of remembering.

They were all so faceless, so indistinguishable from each other. An army under Mason’s control: their individuality meant as little to her as hers did to them.

“I’m so glad you joined us, Margot,” Mason greeted in a sickly snarl. “I hope I didn’t take you away from your guest?”

Margot didn’t speak. She’d purposely planned her appointment with Dr. Bloom to coincide with Mason’s meeting with local business owners they supplied with meat, hoping he would be too busy to wonder what she was doing. She hadn’t factored in the fact the psychiatrist would be early.

“She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she boys?” Mason continued, earning a grunt from his minions. Margot felt the hair on her neck rise as her brother pulled a face. “Plain, but then some people like that. You ought to have introduced her!” His eyes widened with enthusiasm of his own suggestion. “Good siblings share, Margot. We shared Dr. Lecter, didn’t we?”

“I wouldn’t say that’s the best example of our capacity to maintain mutual friendships, Mason.”

His dark, choppy laugh had her teeth clenching in irritation. “You may be right about that. So! Tell me-- this new friend of ours. Who is she?”

Margot had no intention of answering, nor did she think Mason was particularly interested in her doing so. He was building up to something, and she’d long since learned her participation in his games were not necessary for his winning or enjoyment.

“You and your secrets, Margot.” A teasing tutting, and Margot flinched involuntarily: this is where he would have gripped her, if he’d been able. “That _reminds_ me. A Dr. Ferguson from an Illinois hospital called to speak to you.” He paused, to stare into her eyes. “You aren’t thinking of committing yourself, are you?”

“Not today,” Margot said, and Mason laughed out loud again. She frowned.

“Well thank _goodness._ You know you couldn’t live without me, Margot.” He licked his reconstructed lips while the silence swelled. “D16 33A. Do you know what that is?” She simply stared. He continued, “I had Marcello take note of our new friend’s number plate, just in case we ever need to track her down.”

Margot was cursing herself for not predicting Mason would do something so ridiculous. He might have only been saying it to generate a reaction from her-- it wasn’t working, she knew how to pretend by now-- but the threat lingered there all the same: a number plate would lead them to an address. Margot didn’t wish to consider what might happen then.

She’d had two conversations with Dr. Bloom (well, three, technically) and already Mason was making veiled threats toward her. This was how isolation worked; this was how he emphasised his control.

Mason’s placing of this in their conversation was no coincidence. There was no question what he was getting at: she was to quickly forget about sending him away or it would not only be her neck on the line.

“It’s been enlightening to talk with you, as ever. I have to get back to my meeting now:professional things you wouldn’t understand. Goodbye, Margot.”

Margot didn’t wait for the men to approach her brother and wheel him out of the room. His wheelchair was operated by a magnet under his tongue and a plastic headset he wore like a crown. He was more mobile than she had thought possible.

She turned on her heel and headed steadily toward the door. One of Mason’s goons winked at her as she left.

Back downstairs in the parlour, she lit the fire and poured herself another glass of whiskey. After a quick sip which burned the back of her throat like a warning, she picked up her address book and pulled out the most recently used page.

There were only two numbers on it: the Illinois hospital and Alana Bloom’s.

Her hands moved of their own volition: she tore the page in half vertically, and dangled one strip above the climbing flames. She watched the letters melt and mangle while the paper blackened, curling into itself. Letting go of it one finger at a time, she felt the flames tease her fingertips until the slip had fallen completely. Then, she watched it burn to ash.

Her fist closed involuntarily around the second strip. When, after another, much larger, gulp of whiskey, her hand could be prised open again, she slipped it into the pockets of her trousers.

Perhaps Dr. Bloom could have another use.

 


	4. Are you like me, were you left in the fire?

For the proceeding three days, Alana debated whether contacting Jack for information about Margot would be crossing a line. She didn’t forsee Margot having a problem with it; the other woman had practically _suggested_ she look into her past before they saw each other again. It was given to her as an unspoken assignment by a impatient patient, and although Alana didn’t see feeding into Margot’s preoccupation with Mason as particularly healthy when the woman clearly had her own issues to work on, she did see the value in being prepared for whatever the exact history between the siblings was.

Respect for Margot’s privacy had her re-thinking it. Whether or not she seemed to prioritise it, Margot’s problems with her brother belonged solely to them, and it felt horribly intrusive to go digging for this information when it was not of immediate importance. There was the smaller matter of pride: Alana wasn’t quite ready to admit that she’d lost her touch; that the lack of faith she’d had in herself had been transmitted in one session to a patient who seemed to feel more comfortable with Alana using her FBI ties (or what was left of them) to offer her advice than her independent and immediate deductions.

In the end, Alana did call Jack, but she surprised herself by neglecting to mention the Verger’s. She had planned to, or at least had hoped some sort of question about them would work it’s way into natural conversation, but the moment she heard Jack’s voice, something inside her stirred; a flicker of resentment rekindled as he asked her if she’d heard from Will.

It wasn’t like her, and it felt strange to be protective of a patient to the point of possessiveness-- but this was the closest she’d had to a job in months, and she was too proud to request Jack’s help this early into it.

Instead, she told him she’d simply been thinking about him. He believed her, and seemed genuinely happy that she’d called: or as genuinely happy as a recently widowed, word-slurring Jack Crawford could be at midday on a workday he was not working.

They spent the next ten minutes talking idly in circles, talking _around_ their problems, which was a nice change from acknowledging them and still getting nowhere. Then, they hung up with the wordless agreement that the ball was once again in _his_ court.

Alana tried not to dwell on the fact their relationship had dwindled down to this kind of obligatory courtesy, but there was the same gnawing feeling in her gut that always surfaced after she spoke to Jack: the unnamed kind of dejection that came only from being so firmly distanced from someone whose presence you had once taken for granted.

As if speaking to Jack and the dull throb of regret that followed hadn’t been enough self-sabotage for one day, Alana then drove forty minutes to the graveyard where Abigail had been buried ten months previously. By now, she knew the route by heart, having driven to it countless times since her release from hospital.

She was very good at getting there, oh yes-- it was forcing herself out of the car and actually making it to the grave that she seemed to struggle with.

Today was one of her braver days. There was the added blessing that she did not run the risk of bumping into Will, of having to negotiate through all of the things they weren’t saying to each other in order to exchange hostile small talk; it was the dread of standing on either side of Abigail’s grave, hands stuffed in coat pockets so neither would reach out, unable to meet each others eyes: a triad of failure.

She crossed the graveyard with fresh flowers in her hands: white anemones. Only after she’d bought them did Alana think to ponder their meaning: fragility, remembrance. They seemed fitting, somehow. Alana wished there were flowers that would say _I wish it had been me instead;_ she wished that their communication was not one-sided, based on the vague historical symbolism of plants.

As the headstone came into sight, she came to an abrupt stop; the pit of her stomach dropped, a tossed pebble sucked to the bottom of a river bed. In the place where Abigail’s name was, someone had spray-painted in red the word, ‘KILLER.'

A cousin of Abigail’s mother had requested Mrs Hobbs’ ashes not be buried with her husband, and those wishes were both widely understood and honored. They were buried in separate graves in the Minnesota graveyard of the church they had married in, a little over twenty years previous. There had been talk, around the time Will Graham was arrested for her murder, of Abigail’s name being added to one of their headstones, but nothing had come of it.

When, a half a year later, they actually had a body to bury, the sentiment had been well and truly lost of the cousin of Mrs Hobbs. The hype of Abigail’s second death had brought with it the same allegations that had hounded the girl in life-- the prospect of her being buried with her mother’s ashes was, according to the cousin, disrespectful to the innocent woman’s memory; the idea of her being buried with her father felt far too much like flinging her body to hungry wolves, setting her up for the sort of dramatics that Alana was currently seeing.

Abigail hadn't had a will, obviously, and with no next of kin, her body had been released to Will Graham. As per his request, she was buried nearby, in this barely-kept graveyard, with only a private blessing for privacy’s sake. He’d assumed-- wrongly, as was now plainly obvious-- that he and Alana would be the only visitors; that this time, Abigail might finally have been afforded some peace.

It would have been easy to let the flowers fall from her fist, to turn around and go back to her car and drive away, to go home and drink until the red-lettering was no longer tattooed on the back of her eyelids. But tomorrow, the branding would still be there, marring Abigail’s memory; tomorrow, someone else might have seen, and it might trigger further vandalism; tomorrow, Alana would wake up with another way she’d failed to protect her patient.

And so, she moved closer, breath vanishing as she did so. Gingerly, her fingers reached out to touch a spray-painted letter, the temptation to trace it lingering just long enough for her to realize it was still wet.

Alana looked around, the hair on the back of her neck rising. She hadn’t passed anyone on the way in: no other cars had been parked outside. She’d likely just missed who she assumed to be a disgruntled relative of one of the girls Hobbs had killed.

Out of desperation, she dug around in her pockets for tissues, the flowers forgotten, discarded in front of the headstone. She rubbed at the writing desperately, smudging the letters, and then the image was blurring before her, swimming in the frustrated tears that stung in her eyes.

She didn’t know what the protocol was for this kind of situation. She could call the police, but wouldn’t that draw further attention? Would they even _care_?

The graveyard was large, over-grown and all but full. If there was a groundskeeper, Alana had never seen them, nor did she know where she would find them.

It was not the first time since Will’s departure for Europe that she’d felt the suffocating need to call him, but it was the first time she’d felt it while entirely sober.

In the end, she retreated to her car for a cloth, damping it with a windscreen cleaner she kept buried in the boot. She kneeled before the headstone and wiped it until her fingers and the cloth were stained red; until only a faint imprint of the lettering remained. It was still visible and entirely too legible for her liking, but it was the best she could do on her own at the present time.

Back at her car, she found a missed call from Margot. She called back, to no avail. It rang out four times before panic set in.

_What if something had happened between Margot and her brother?_

It wasn’t like her brother could physically _do_ anything to her-- or at least Alana didn’t _think_ he could. Alana's greater concern was what Margot might have done to _him_ , if the venomous way she spoke of him the previous day held any bearing on their typical exchange.

It was paranoia, above all else, and consciously she knew that, but that knowledge was not enough to stop her from verging dangerously close to breaking speeding laws to get to the Verger’s house. She rang the doorbell, becoming increasingly frantic as she took in Margot’s car parked beside hers in the driveway. It had snowed, yet the ground under the car was dry: it hadn’t been moved all day.

When no one answered, her stomach dropped. Weak-kneed, she stumbled backward a few steps, swallowed hard as dread turned her blood to ice.

She genuinely had no idea who she should be more worried about: Margot or Mason.

The whine of a horse startled her enough to jump. She turned on her heel, entire body relaxing when she saw Margot on the back of beautiful white and grey horse. They stared at each other for what may have been uncomfortably long, before Alana realised she was the one who had shown up, unannounced, and thus it was a requirement that she be the first to speak.

“You called me,” she reminded Margot, stepping down from the porch and moving closer. She rested her hand against the horse’s snout, smiling as it sniffed her, it’s warm breath on her cold skin a surprising comfort. “I called back, but you didn’t answer.”

“I’ve been outside most of the morning.” Margot tugged on the horses rains gently as though to demonstrate her point. “You look upset. You didn’t have to come over.”

“It’s fine, really.” She didn’t want to go into any amount of detail as to why she’d been crying. “How about you? Why did you call?”

“We need to schedule another appointment.” Margot raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you would be quite so available.”

She was tempted to be insulted, or even embarrassed by that, but the teasing flicker in Margot’s eyes was much too interesting to be simply attributed to malice. “I think you did,” Alana said, not breaking eye contact. “I think that’s why you called me in the first place. I think you wanted someone who can and would drop everything to see you.”

Alana’s reward for this was a faint smirk, the confirmation that she’d assumed right. “Perhaps,” Margot said, and then she nodded toward the stable. “Walk with me.”

Alana did, and they talked casually as Margot slipped from the horse and led it back to it’s stall. She told Alana that before Mason’s accident, they’d had staff who helped with the horses, but these days Margot did it largely single-handedly. It was the way she liked it, and as she took Alana though the names of each beautiful animal in turn, Alana was gifted with what just may have been the first genuine smile she’d seen from Margot.

It might have been unnerving, had Alana not expected some sort of break in Margot's typical facade. Everyone had their switch, something that turned them into the person they wanted to be rather than the person they were: for Margot, it was horse-riding.

So Alana asked questions that she already knew answers to, if only because it coaxed Margot further out of herself. She nodded knowingly as the other woman spoke about the saddles and reins that were gentle on the horses; she pretended to understand just how beneficial the specific brand of hay Margot dished out was.

When she felt confident that Margot's sincerity was genuine, she took a deep breath and prepared to destroy it. It was necessary-- all of their conversations could not be this comfortable, this nice-- but Alana found herself stalling all the same. There was something about Margot's smile, about the tone of her voice when she spoke unguarded. Something that made Alana wish she didn't have to ask the question she proceeded to.

“Does your brother like horses, too, Margot?”

Margot's lips were thin and straight, their fond curling from just a moment ago vanishing with Alana's words. “Not particularly. He managed the pigs.”

Ah-- yes. Of course: the family business. “You're family used to host a summer camp here,” Alana said, thought only striking her at the mention of the pigs. “Underprivileged children, wasn't it? Do you still--?”

Margot's eyelids twitched. “No. We don't do that anymore.”

“Oh?” This surprised Alana: she'd heard it was a real pillar-of-the-community kind of thing. “I read about it once.It was a lovely idea.”

“Not quite so lovely in practice, unfortunately.”

“Why's that?” Alana tilted her head, curiosity only heightened by Margot's tone.

“You don't know?” Margot gave a bored half-smirk. “Dr. Lecter did his research.”

Maybe it was the fact she was tired of hearing his name brought up as a critique of her own: maybe it was because she'd spent the morning scrubbing a title he deserved off the headstone of his last victim-- the one she'd practically handed to him, gift-wrapped. Maybe it was just that fact that Alana looked at Margot and saw the reflection of another person who had fallen for Hannibal's charm, who had sincerely believed he cared about them.

Whatever it was, Margot's mention of Hannibal had something inside her flaring with anger and hurt and this swelled in the silence until she was afraid she wouldn't be able to breathe around it.

“I have to go,” she said, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“We still haven't arranged another appointment,” Margot reminded her with narrowed eyes.

_Thank God._ “I think that maybe I should recommend someone else to you.” This obviously surprised Margot: it surprised Alana too. She didn't always have this foresight for disasters. “I'll be in touch.”

She had turned, was walking away briskly, when Margot called her back. She froze, not wanting to turn around but knowing she would. “Yes?”

“I have something to show you,” Margot said simply. She walked toward the house without looking back to check if Alana was following.

She was.

* * *

 

She hadn’t given Mason’s injuries much thought, or at least that was how it seemed now, because she certainly was not prepared for the sight that greeted her through the tinted windows of one of the Verger's upstairs rooms.

His face was a patchwork display of scars, mis-matched layers of reconstructed skin, an arched bandage where his nose should be. It seemed Margot was not exaggerating his paralysis: he was completely still in his wheelchair while a woman in scrubs fussed around him.

For a second, just before the nausea and the anger and the horror kicked in, Alana felt  _lucky._ Her hand flew to her mouth, not sure whether it was the extent of Mason’s injuries or her own selfish thoughts that disgusted her most. She could feel Margot’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t tear herself away from watching Mason. 

"I’m so sorry,” Alana blurted out as tears burned in her eyes. She didn’t know who she was apologising to, or even why, but guilt came so naturally these days that it hardly mattered.

“You didn't know my brother before, Dr. Bloom. Nor would you have wanted to. He was monstrous. He did monstrous things-- not just to me.” Alana had been half expecting a revelation like this one, although she hadn't quite expected it in this moment. “He will be dependent, physically, for the rest of his life. There’s something to be said for the loss of dignity that comes from being paralysed.” Margot spoke of this in a knowing way, as though she had gathered this information from much of her own experience. Only then, in that exact moment, did Alana realize that revenge was what this was to Margot, and all it might ever be. "Dr. Lecter understood too, I believe."

No doubt, Margot had brought her here to make her see what ‘good’ Hannibal had done: to show her that there was so much more that she hadn’t seen, that his actions had had positive consequences-- at least for someone. Mason, who had done horrible things to his sister for years, was now being permanently punished. Margot had control over him now: he was physically powerless in comparison to his sister. They both received what they deserved.

Instead, Alana only found this vigilante justice even more unsettling. It was a horrific and emotionally destructive way to live, for _both_ siblings, imposed upon them by a man with a God complex. Will and Hannibal hadn’t made an altruistic move on Margot’s behalf with her needs and her safety in the forefront of their minds. They hadn’t acted out of concern and an ardent desire to rid her of her brother’s abuse. All they’d really done was reassert the notion that there would always be a victim and a villain: flipping the scales didn’t provide anything resembling a healthy balance. Mason might no longer be able to physically hurt his sister, but that did not stop her hatred for him from leaving psychological scars that were just as irrevocable.

The sadism was poisonous and it was unethical to be privy to it without action, yet Alana couldn’t fathom a response; couldn’t see past the sight in front of her; couldn’t hear a rational solution beyond Margot’s words ringing in her ears.

“I _owe_ Will Graham and Dr. Lecter. They did this for me,” Margot said, her lips curling ever so slightly as she spoke. “I’m grateful.”

She shouldn’t have said anything, but the bitter words were tumbling out before Alana could swallow them. She turned to Margot, eyes still full of tears. “They didn’t do this for you, Margot. They did this _to_ you.”

A flash of something ghosted across Margot’s face, her earlier smile forgotten in place of closed, tight lips. “I don’t know why I thought you would understand. Some people prefer to revel in victimhood.”

“I’m not projecting onto you: I don’t think you’re a victim, or at least, I know that’s not all you are.” When Margot refused to look at her, Alana reached out, hand closing around the other woman’s arm. The speed with which Margot jerked her head and flinched under her touch toward her spoke volumes for her ability to deal with sudden displays of infancy. It was such a valid rejection, yet it made fresh tears spring in Alana’s eyes as she took a step back, and let her hand fall. “I think it’s _so_ brave of you to continue to live with your brother after whatever he did to you. It shows strength and character and determination and I admire all of that,” she took a long, shaky, breath, and tried in vain to spark some kind of emotion in Margot’s empty eyes, “but there is a difference between being dragged down by someone and choosing to wear them like an anchor around your neck until you both drown.”

“You’re right, Dr. Bloom,” Margot said, as her eyes narrowed. Something sparked inside Alana: something so foreign it was almost unrecognisable-- _hope_. “This _was_ a mistake. I think you should leave.”

Her heart sank, but her desperation did not wilt. “Okay. Okay. I will, I just--” Her hands shook as she rubbed one against her forehead, the other a fist by her side. She had to be careful how she handled this: Margot was delicately resentful. “I’m going to call a few colleagues, and I’ll email you their credentials, their information. You know I can’t force you to, but please, Margot, agree to meet with one of them.”

Margot’s expression was stony and closed: Alana had no idea if her words were even being heard. She’d gone too far, said too much, and now whatever Margot had offered her as a means to understanding was gone.

She left without even risking a goodbye.

 


	5. This heart's been sleeping for months

Dr. Lecter was not Margot’s first psychiatrist. Her father had had her in therapy for years before his death, but of course it had been at the recommendation of her teachers rather than out of genuine concern. As a child, she had been silent about her homelife, reluctant to speak of it. She’d been taught that if she told, there would be repercussions.

This made her a reluctant patient, and one who could lie well enough to fool the school counsellor with ridiculous ease. Dr. Lecter was different though, not only because he was the kind of person who could keep a secret. By the time she became his patient, after trying to kill her brother, Margot had gained a new perspective on the treatment she’d been subjected to, and pride had taken the place of fear. 

Which was perhaps what made her relationship with Dr. Bloom so difficult. She’d expected understanding: surely if Will and Dr. Lecter had been able to see that the only way to fight with Mason was with violence, she would too? Surely she’d be able to comprehend the gravity of the hurt that Mason had inflicted for years, and why that meant his current situation was exactly what he deserved?

What was Dr. Bloom’s kind of therapy, if it wasn’t about making Margot feel like she had control, for the first time in her life?

It hardly mattered anymore-- she’d made a mistake thinking there was even the possibly that she could trust someone she did not know, someone who was so blinded by her own resentments toward Hannibal Lecter that she couldn’t see anything positive in the man who’d given Margot a chance at freedom. Margot had no intention of seeing Dr. Bloom again, with a bitter kind of resolve left behind by the sting of the other woman’s unintentional betrayal.

It was late afternoon of the following day when Margot’s cell phone rang. Her first instinct was that it was Dr. Bloom: calling to apologise, probably, or to backtrack. It would be too late, of course, and Margot would have to tell her this. Once bitten, twice shy, and Margot was not in the business of second chances.

The number wasn’t another cell, though. It was an office number, ID withheld, and curiosity had her answering it despite the apprehension in the back of her mind. 

“Margot Verger?” A male voice, and one she didn’t recognise. 

“Yes?” 

“Oh, hello. I’m Dr. Heimlich. Dr. Bloom may have mentioned me?” There was a pause, and Margot almost dropped the phone in surprise, “Is this a bad time?”

Other psychiatrists dropped her as a patient when they didn’t get their way, or fell for whatever front Margot would offer. None had pressed her silence further; none had recruited someone else to try when they’d been unsuccessful. 

Alana had mentioned that she’d contact other colleagues, but Margot hadn’t believed she really would. People didn’t really care that much. The terror on Dr. Bloom’s face yesterday as she'd watched Mason though tainted glass had told her that she’d probably just be relieved to be away from Margot.

“Ms. Verger?” Dr. Heimlich prompted. “Are you still there?”

When she overcame the initial surprise, Margot allowed him to arrange a consultation. He had no problem making house calls, because Dr. Bloom had told him it would be more convenient for her.

She had barely had a moment to make note of the appointment before her phone was ringing again: another withheld office number. She fielded three more calls from psychiatrists she’d never heard of but who assured her they were successful and trusted. She rejected them on the basis she’d already scheduled an appointment with Heimlich, but they all insisted she take their numbers in case she were to change her mind.

That night, she called Dr. Bloom, for no other reason than to find out the truth behind her motives. 

“Margot?” Dr. Bloom’s voice was too relieved, the caller ID obviously enough to reassure her she was no longer receiving the silent treatment. In the next breath, panic set in. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, now. Or at least I think so. Just how many psychiatrists should I be expecting calls from?" 

“That depends on how many have already called you,” she replied, quietly. Margot imagined she was blushing, and then shook the image from her mind before it could take home there.

“Four so far.”

“Oh. Well, just one more, then.” There was silence. Alana hastily added, “I wanted you to have options. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“You haven’t.” Margot poured herself a drink, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “Who do you recommend?”

“Um,” Alana obviously hadn’t been expecting to be asked her opinion. “I honestly couldn’t say. They’re all wonderful in their own regard.”

“Who would be wonderful for _me_?”

“It depends. If you’re more comfortable with a female psychiatrist, Dr. Gorder specialises in women’s mental health, particularly PTSD.” 

Margot didn’t care about the sex of her psychiatrist: she just wanted one who wouldn’t talk to her like she was the victim of every man she’d ever met. “Is that what you think is wrong with me? Post traumatic stress disorder?”

“I think you have some of the symptoms, but they could just as easily be hallmarks of something else. I couldn’t make a diagnosis based solely on our conversations so far.” Her explanation was delicate, so hesitant to prevent offense that Margot almost felt sorry for her. “I think that diagnosing you with something isn’t nearly as important as helping you understand yourself and what you've been though.”

Margot didn’t know how to respond to that kind of concern. She was accustomed to having to be proactive, to having to seek out what she needed from people. This was strange, this seemingly no-strings-attached help that was being thrown in her direction.

She could bluntly remove herself from the conversation, maybe even so in a way that Dr. Bloom wouldn’t dream of calling back. She could thank her politely, and that would be that.

As she closed the living room curtains, her eyes caught on the lights from the stables. Without much consideration, the words were coming. “Have you ever ridden a horse before, Dr. Bloom?” 


	6. Maybe we could go back to the start

She had no obligation to visit Margot Verger again. Heimlich had called her two hours after Margot the previous night to say that she had in fact made an appointment with him. She was another psychiatrist's patient now, another person’s _responsibility._ Job done, or at least as well as Alana supposed she could do, these days.

Yet she found herself there anyway, in the Verger stable, dressed in jeans, a fitted coat and boots, as per Margot’s instructions. When the other woman came away from one of the horses for long enough to notice her presence, she felt herself being eyed up and down and for the first time in a while, Alana didn’t feel intimidated.

“I like your boots,” Margot commented absent-mindedly as she approached, and Alana’s mind suddenly struggled to remember where she’d bought them. They were last winter’s: she had yet to go shopping, because going alone was too damn depressing and she’d managed to alienate all of her friends.

“Thanks.” She turned toward the horses. “So, what do I need to know?”

Margot made horse-riding sound as easy as she’d made it look a few days before. Alana was apprehensive, not least because she’d been made especially aware of her body’s limitations and the fragility of the spine in the last ten months. Still, today was a good day according to her pain scale, and Margot had invited her, had continued to reach out despite their earlier disagreement: it would be rude, and potentially detrimental, to decline.

Ten minutes and a little less pride later, Alana’s horse followed Margot’s out of the stable. They trotted slowly, the pace set by Margot as she led them around the estate, motioning to all the fields around which the Verger’s also owned.

“It must have been nice, living here as a kid.” It was an off-handed comment, because Margot seemed so outdoorsy and the place was an active child’s dream. Wide open spaces, trees perfect for climbing, stimulus for the imagination with every step.

Margot stared off into the distance, the sunset casting an orange glow on her cheeks. “An abundance of places to hide,” she said quietly, and then she turned back to the path ahead.

The ride back to the stable was spent in silence. Margot put her horse back in it’s stall before helping Alana from hers. She directed Alana calmly, even as the horse began to get agitated and Alana grew anxious. Listening to Margot paid off, and she slipped off easily, almost too triumphant to notice that Margot’s gloved hand had rested on her back for just a second too long-- almost, but not quite.

Margot put the second horse away while Alana struggled with her helmet. The other woman returned as Alana’s clumsy fingers had managed to loosen the buckle, laughing faintly as she batted her hands out of the way and clicked it open easily, hands brushing with Alana’s hair and cheeks and ears as she slid it from her head.

“I’m really glad you invited me over,” Alana said, hands tucked into her pockets as while she watched Margot feed both the horses a carrot and stroke them fondly. “It was nice.”

“I made an appointment with Dr. Heimlich,” Margot said, abruptly. “He was the first one to call. He knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”

Alana took a step closer, stoking the ears of the horse Margot was feeding. “I wouldn’t trust him with you if he didn’t.”

“Is that right?” Rasps of Margot’s hair sprung on either side of her cheeks as she took her own helmet off. “What makes me so special?”

“I try to be this thorough with all of my patients.” Inside her head rang a bitter laugh. “Obviously, that isn’t always the case.”

There was silence for a long time. Alana felt the right side of her face flush with the heat of Margot’s eyes on it. “The Hobbs girl was your patient, wasn’t she? Is that what you mean?” When Alana nodded, Margot looked away. “I’m sorry that she died,” she said, and it might just have been the closest to compassion Alana had garnered from Margot so far. She chalked it up as a breakthrough, even if it did cut something inside her fresh again.

She offered Margot a quickly dissolving smile. “So am I.”

A few minutes later, they sat together on a bench outside the stable and watched the remainder of the sun disappear behind dark clouds. The chill in the air was enough to have Alana rubbing her hands for warmth; enough to excuse the fact that maybe, just maybe, they were sitting a little too close together.

“I wanted to say something to you yesterday, on the phone, but I didn’t, because I thought you’d think I was just trying to backtrack,” Alana admitted, ducking her head. “What I wanted to say was that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. Whether the symptoms I think I see are the hallmarks of a mental illness or just a defence mechanism you’ve crafted, it isn’t your fault. I think what was done _to_ you was wrong, and I think the way you’ve been taught to handle that is wrong. I think your mindset is potentially dangerous, and I think that you deserve better than to be trapped in a vicious cycle for the rest of your life.”

Beside her, she felt Margot stiffen. “Do you say that to all of your patients?”

With a sigh, Alana turned to her. “I’m not your psychiatrist, Margot. I've hardly even been one for the last two weeks. I know myself well enough to know that’s not what I should be doing right now, and I know that you deserve better than someone who might let their own issues impact upon yours.” Alana offered her a small smile, an olive branch between them. “I can’t be your psychiatrist, but if you’d let me, I’d like to be your friend.”

* * *

 

Margot had been quiet, mature, emotionally distant as a child. She couldn’t remember a time she played carelessly with doll houses and crayons or cars. She’d always loved horses, but the colours that the plastic toys came in were always too bright, too much of a lie for her to really engage with.

Unsurprisingly, this made her a virtual outcast in elementary school. She grew accustomed to being the one child in her class excluded from birthday parties; the one the others were too frightened by to play tricks on or bully. With Mason as a brother, the odds were decidedly stacked against her making friends while under his eye.

Middle and high school offered her the opportunity for re-inventing herself. On her first day at Notre Dame Prep, Margot met a girl called Clare who had kind hazel eyes and small lips and layered hair that constantly made for a messy plait.

Clare was smart, like Margot, and she had three brothers. Two of them were younger, and the older one had gone to college in that same year, but her complaints about having to share her space and never being the favourite child rang true with Margot all the same. Without Mason around, their friendship flourished. There were so many things that Margot couldn’t tell Clare, so many secrets that the other girl had no idea were being hidden, but when they were together, Margot could fool herself into believing none of it really mattered.

Until the day Clare asked if she could come over to Margot’s house. The exact reasoning was lost on Margot now, but it had had something to do with a school project they were working on together. Clare’s house had been out of the question, probably something to do with the younger brothers, and the library was out of bounds because of renovation.

Even at fifteen years old, Margot had known it was a terrible idea, but after a week of Clare’s begging, she relented. She snuck Clare in while her father was working, and for two hours they worked on the project, laughing together, until it was time for Clare to go home.

Mid-winter, it had gotten dark outside drastically suddenly. Margot cursed herself for not thinking ahead, for not _anticipating_ this. Neither of them had a cell phone; Clare did not know her mother’s cell number by heart; they’d gotten here by school bus-- it was too long of a walk, especially in the dark.

“Can’t your Papa take me home?” Clare had asked, adding that her mother would be worried if she stayed much longer. Margot had had to explain in embarrassment that her father didn’t actually know Clare was _here_ and that he would be upstairs in his study by now, too drunk to drive.

Mason had appeared in the foyer behind them, spooking Margot and making Clare laugh.

“Is this your brother?” She’d asked, smiling at him. “Wow, you two really look alike.”

“I’d be happy to leave you home,” Mason had said, and Clare had been grateful. Margot’s stomach had worked itself into knots simply watching them communicate.   
  
She’d wanted to come along, but Mason had been adamant. “Papa will wonder where you are, Margot,” he said sweetly, and Clare had nodded, squeezing her hand as she trailed after Mason.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” she’d insisted.

Margot had stood in the doorway and watched Clare climb into the passenger seat of Mason’s car, giggling at something he said to her. Tears pricked in Margot’s eyes at the thought that she might be the butt of their joke.

Mason didn’t tell their father that she’d had Clare over; nor did he strike her that night. Instead, he stayed well away. The next day, she saw the bruises on Clare’s wrist when she raised her hand in class and realized why: he’d found a better way to punish her.

Clare avoided her after that. When they met each other in the hallway, Clare ducked her head. When they had to pair up for assignments, Clare found someone else. At lunch time, while Margot sat in their usual spot, Clare took her tray to a table with a group of girls from their class, avoiding Margot’s eyes like they were lasers.

Now, as the word ‘friend’ echoed in Margot’s ears like a gunshot, she thought of Mason’s warning with blood that boiled: _I had Marcello take note of our new friend’s number plate, just in case we ever need to track her down._

She wanted to be Alana’s friend, not only because Mason wouldn’t want her to be, but because she’d wanted a connection of some kind for so long now. It didn’t matter if Alana didn’t understand her and didn’t understand just how much Dr. Lecter had helped her and _certainly_ didn’t seem to understand that sometimes people like Mason got _exactly_ what they deserved-- because she wanted the best for Margot, and she saw the best _in_ her, and only someone who was genuinely blinded by some sort of affection must be able to do that, surely.

The last time Margot had dared to have a relationship of any kind with someone had ended in a scar across her abdomen that still stung and burned when she thought of all it represented. It could be a dangerous game, for both of them. One Alana might not be ready to play.

“Margot?” She said now, interrupting her with a nervous smile. “Did I say something wrong?” She turned her head away, casting her gaze off into the distance so as not to pressure Margot. “I can handle rejection, you know. I'm a big girl.”

There it was: her way out. She wouldn't need to be rude, although it would be better if she were. Still, she could offer Alana the polite excuse of having too much on her plate right now.

She could, but Margot knew she wouldn't.

“We can be friends,” she said, the word tasting like ash on her tongue. “I think I'd like that.”

 


	7. I will be your safety

That night, when Alana got home, she vowed that next time, she would let Margot come to her. She wanted the reassurance that she hadn't been too forward with her; she didn't want Margot to feel pressured or forced into a friendship she wasn't emotionally ready to have.

Leaving it up to Margot meant Alana was absolving herself from guilt, and it also gave Margot control. It was the best Alana could do, under the circumstances.

70 odd hours later and she was on Margot's front porch as the rain fell around her, ringing the doorbell and banging the stupid knocker like her life depended on it with shaking hands and beer on her breath, eyelashes spiked with snow and tears.

She'd almost forgotten Abigail's birthday, amongst the general Verger-drama. It could be argued that this wasn't necessarily her fault-- she'd never celebrated a birthday with Abigail, after all, and had only made a note of it after her death. Regardless of the logistics, it still left Alana feeling like a piece of shit when her eyes fell on the kitchen calender mid-afternoon.

She bought the freshest flowers she could find and drove out to the graveyard. She held it together for long enough to spot the latest accusation spray-painted across Abigail's name; she didn't fall apart until the cloth from her car failed to even smudge the already-dry lettering.

“I never understood why she wasn’t buried in Minnesota.” A voice startled Alana from her scattered thoughts. She forced herself up from her knees, wiping her damp cheeks with her shaking hands, too weak to be anywhere near frantic.

Freddie Lounds had a bunch of lilac fuchsias in her gloved hands. She stared at Alana carefully, and instantaneously her cheeks burned: anger, rather than anything else. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Freddie motioned to the flowers with a frown. “You weren’t the only one who cared about Abigail.”

Sometimes it felt like she had been, the sea of grief she was struggling in so lonely now she no longer had Will’s pain to keep her afloat.

Her fingers curled and her icy, wholehearted tears turned to that of hot spite. Her pulse raced and her breath caught in her throat and her blood moved more quickly in her veins as she tried to fight the urge to grab a strand of Freddie’s hair and yank it

“You only cared about her when it suited your story,” she spat out, taking a step closer. Freddie took a small step back, her blue eyes still measuring Alana. “You _used_ her.”

“I would have thought you’d have cried yourself out at her first funeral,” Freddie said, glancing toward the snow-covered grave. “Then again, it was more of a memorial service.”

Freddie hadn’t cried. Freddie had shown up twenty minutes late with her camera in hand. Hannibal had put distance between the two women and at the time, Alana had been supremely grateful. Now, Alana wondered if he’d been the one to tell her it was happening.

Alana _had_ cried then too: she’d followed through religiously on grief’s seven stages; she’d handled it as was expected. Her despair had been textbook, so predictable, so easily controlled if she treated herself as a patient.

Now, this first dealing with loss seemed to her as a mere tremor. The real thing, as if her mind had known all those months ago, erupted like a volcano. Her frustrated screams filled its chamber, the pressure of containing it for the last ten months the reason for her inevitable explosion; guilt burned out of her like magma-- short, suffocating bursts of crying that she couldn’t control or predict.

“Why are you really here, Freddie?” Alana narrowed her eyes, blinking back more tears fiercely. “What do you want?”

“I promised Will I would bring flowers.”

“Will?” Alana felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. Her words sounds like pebbles dropped into the water, faint, desperate, rippling rings of hurt. “You spoke to Will?”

Something flickered across Freddie's face that Alana didn't recognize. " _I_ called _him_ ,” she said, perhaps the kindest sentiment she had ever offered Alana, but she was far from grateful. “He asked if I'd seen you.”

So what, he was too busy to check in with Alana but he had time to talk to the journalist who had photographed his injuries and put them online for the sake of an exclusive? Did he have more trust in her than Alana?

Is this what they had been reduced to? Communicating via Freddie fucking Lounds?

“He also asked you not to write about Abigail.” Alana gestured to the grave behind her, the red words that tarred all any of them had left of the girl they'd all let down. “When did you start doing as Will asks?”

Freddie frowned, and Alana might have pinched herself at the remorseful tone that followed if she hadn't been so angry, “I didn't know this would happen.”

But she'd taken the risk. After her last visit to the graveyard, Alana had done her research. It turned out, the first graffiti incident coincided with an article published by Freddie-- the last photograph of Will before he left for Europe, standing alone in the very spot they were arguing in now.

There was no wondering where the perpetrators had gotten the location of Abigail's grave from: Freddie and her blog.

“All you had to do was leave her alone.” Alana's voice broke off under the physical strain of grief, for the same reason, her cheeks were flushed yet cold, her body shivering in spite of being wrapped in layers of burning anger.

Freddie took a step closer: Alana backed away. “I've been thinking about Will's request, actually.”

Alana turned back to the grave, sniffing as she tightened her fists together and began mentally counting back from ten. “I don't care what you've been thinking about.”

“At the time, I chalked it up to fear for what was about to happen with Hannibal, making him irrational. Now, I'm not so sure.”

Alana didn't move. She shut her eyes for a moment as breathing levelled and the tears on her cheeks dried. The only way to get rid of Freddie was to listen to her, even if she did plan on shooting whatever theory she was floating this month down. “Cut to the chase, Freddie.”

“It seemed odd, that's all I'm saying. Abigail had been dead, or at least we all thought she was, for months. Why would he worry about me bringing her up after Hannibal's arrest?”

“Because that's what you _do_ ,” Alana replied blankly. “Because he didn't trust you.”

“But there wouldn't have been _need_ to write about her. I mean, yes, of course she would have been listed as his victims in articles, but there were others, with stories just as sensational. Why would she have needed to be a focus again? Why would Will have expected that?” There was a brief pause, and then Freddie was coming closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Alana in front of Abigail's grave. “Unless, he knew a reason why she would become a story.”

In that split second, the air between them seemed too thick, too compressed. She felt the implication of Freddie's words sting in her cheeks; she felt this supposed new truth like a clove trapped under her tongue: there wasn't enough room for it in her mouth or her mind.

Slowly, she turned her head. Freddie met her eye and held it. “What are you suggesting?”

“I don't think he was hurting her. I don't think he agreed with it. Maybe Hannibal was blackmailing him, or maybe _she_ was.”

Alana swallowed hard, looking away quickly before the sincerity in Freddie's eyes could do anything to convince her. “Will did not know Abigail was alive.”

“I know that's what he said, but--”

“--but _nothing_.” Alana turned back, wide-eyed now, questions buzzing in her mind like static. “If you believed that-- if you even believed it a _little_ \-- it would be all over your blog by now.”

“Some facts aren't necessarily central to the story.” Freddie looked away. “I think this might be one of those facts.”

“Your facts are wrong.” Alana crossed her arms and attempted her best glare, but the effect was dampened by the tears that shone in her eyes, by the shake still present in her voice. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Freddie looked back at her for just a moment. “You thought that before, too,” she said quietly, but very deliberately.

Alana didn't want to think about before: she didn't want to think about any of it. “Get it off,” she hissed, motioning to the spray-paint, and then she turned and walked away before the second seed of doubt Freddie had planted in her mind would have room to grow.

It became clear to her, two hours and three beers and countless tissues later, it was already too late.

* * *

 

For the next day, Alana felt Freddie's insinuation like an itch she couldn't scratch. She tried not to think about it, but it irritated her anyway, rubbing against all the concerns she'd already had about Will. She tried to distract herself, to soothe it with alcohol, but it could only be numbed for a matter of minutes before it returned, becoming increasingly uncomfortable the longer it went ignored.

She wished she could claw it out of her mind.

She fell asleep midday after a long walk with the dogs and the drowsiness that came from mixing pain medication with alcohol. She woke up to three missed calls: two from Jack, and one from her oldest brother. It surprised her that she was so disappointed none of the calls came from Margot.

Alana knew it wasn't right to ignore them, but she felt like to call them back and pretend she was fine when it was so blatantly obvious that she _wasn't_ was a greater burden. This way, they could tell themselves that she hadn't answered because by some miracle she was working or because she'd gone out to dinner with friends. It was kinder to let them invent the kind of lies they wanted than to diffuse that with the truth.

A knock on the door around 9pm didn't come as a huge shock. Andrew had probably called Adam, who would have raced over to check she was alright. Their persistence did them both such an injustice, but she knew the next step would be kicking the door down, so she had little choice about going to the door.

When she opened it to Will Graham, she seriously considered slamming it shut again.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, too coolly, as the dogs took turns barking and jumping on him in greeting.

He took care to stoke each one of them in turn, getting to his knees and mumbling something Alana couldn't hear as they rubbed against him. When he'd finished, and the dogs excitement had begun to ease, he sat back on his heels and looked up at her.

“Can I come in?”

She turned away and retreated back into the house, deciding it was probably much better if she stayed silent. She was afraid she would say something she didn't mean-- or rather, she was afraid that she might say something that she  _did._

“What are you doing here?” she repeated, just as icily as before, as she folded her arms and stood in the middle of her living room.

“I'm just back for a few days. I wanted to check in.”

“You couldn't have called?”

He looked hurt, but Alana didn't relent. She stared hard at the dark circles underneath his eyes and tried to will the same compassion or pity that had once come so naturally. “I heard you weren't doing so well.”

“From Freddie?” Alana laughed in spite of herself. “I didn't realize you two were so close.”

“We aren't.” Will looked as uncomfortable as ever, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. “I wanted to call you, but I didn't-- I mean, we don't really do that kind of thing anymore. We never did, not really.”

Their last phone call had been made by Alana, on the night of...everything. A word of warning, a stricken apology in her voice, a hasty goodbye on his end. It could have ended like that: it should have, perhaps.

“-- and Freddie just called, wanting information, and of course I said no--”

“-- was that a lie?” Alana's resolve flickered for a second. “Do you have information?”

Will didn't need to respond to that: his frown, the regret that shone in his eyes, told Alana all she needed to know.

“She thinks you knew Abigail was alive, you know.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” He took a step toward her. Alana pointedly took a step back, putting distance between them. It had been easier to ignore his pain when he'd been in a different continent. “Alana?”

“ _Did_ you?” She hated herself for asking this question, but she hated Will much more for giving her reason to. “Did you know Abigail was alive? All that time? Did you keep that from me, too?”

His eyes narrowed: his lips tightened. “Where is this even _coming_ from? Freddie? Freddie Lounds? Do you seriously believe _anything_ she has to say?”

“Why shouldn't I?” Her heart quickened to the pace of repressed resentment. “She's been a hell of a lot more honest with me than any of the rest of you.”

Will went perfectly still. “I did not lie to you.”

“You know what I mean.” Her voice sounded too heavy, too full of anger-- she barely recognized it, and somehow that seemed fitting: sometimes she struggled to recognize herself these days. “Did you know he had Abigail?”

“In case you've forgotten, I was on trial for her _murder._ If I knew she was alive, don't you think I would have--”

“--no, I don't. I don't know how you think. I don't know what you were thinking then or after or even now. I don't know because I don't know _you_.” Even as she said this, it was Abigail's face she saw before her, not Will's. She heard the whisper, like she still did in her dreams most nights: the weak and ready, ' _I'm so sorry._ '

“If I had known, I would have protected her,” Will said, animosity coming off him in waves, and Alana heard the accusation in his words, even if it wasn't intentional.

One blink had her eyes burning once more. Any energy deflated, even as she struck out against him and his hands tightened around her wrists. He shushed her, an expression of pure pain on his face as he held her at arms length.

“No, _no!_ I should have been the one to protect her, not _you_. She was _my_ patient. I should never have let him visit with her. I should have known. God, Will, I should have known.”

She yanked herself out of his grasp, while he weakly attempted to reassure her that it wasn't her fault when they both knew it _was_.

“It was my _job_ to make sure she didn't suffer any more than she already had and I just stood back and let him have her, let you have her. I let her down and I wasn't _there_ and now--” She stopped to swallow against the burning in her throat, the raw pain of regret. When she tried to speak again, no words came out.

She thought, not for the first time, of all the nights she'd spent at Hannibal's. Had Abigail been a room away while she let him fuck her? Had Abigail known Alana was there? Had she thought that, maybe, Alana knew she was there too and didn't care?

Had she called out, from the basement or the attic or wherever he put her, only for Alana to be too preoccupied to hear?

Sobs racked her body at this last thought: the one that always got to her. What if Abigail had cried out for her and Alana hadn't been listening? What if she'd ignored her, without meaning to? What if Alana could have saved her from Hannibal, could have took her in her arms just once and, for even a second, made Abigail feel a little less alone?

Hand covering her mouth as the sobbing stilled, Alana turned away from Will. “I'd like you to leave now,” she said, a sharp involuntary intake of breath causing her to almost choke on the words.

“Alana--”

“-- _go_ _,_ Will. _Please_.” 

“Tell me what to do. Tell me how I can help you.” Will's voice was hitching too, and Alana was _so_ glad she couldn't see his face.

“Find him. Find out what he did to her.” She curled and uncurled her fist. “I don't care what you do after that. I just need to know.”

She took the extended silence as an agreement. “I'll come by and see you before I go again,” he said, and she didn't for a second believe him, and she supposed that was probably the point. She didn't turn around until she heard the hum of an ignition in the driveway.

* * *

To say Margot was surprised to find an uncoated Alana Bloom shivering on her doorstep as rain fell around her was an understatement. She let her in, all the same, and almost as soon as she crossed the threshold, the psychiatrist who usually kept herself so perfectly together promptly lost it.

“Is Will Graham here?” was her only greeting, wide-blue eyes that were bloodshot and frantic, and Margot shook her head.

“Of course not. Why would he be?” She thought of Mason: perhaps he'd come back to finish the job. “ _Should_ he be?”

Alana visibly relaxed, turning away from Margot and gravitating toward the warmth of the living room fireplace. She wrapped her arms around herself as she began pacing.

“He’s doing the rounds,” she mumbled, stopping short mid-pace to blink up at Margot, desperation bleeding from her. “What does it feel like?”

“What?” Margot crossed the room and picked up her glass.

Alana blinked at her. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

“You’re driving,” Margot said curtly, taking a pointed sip and then turning back to her. “What does _what_ feel like, Alana?”

The other woman’s eyes darkened, she seemed to shrink back into herself. “Whatever you do to Mason.”

Margot licked her lips. “What do you think I do to Mason?”

“Stop it!” Alana burst out, a tiny sparkler of a meltdown as her hands curled to fists and her arms dropped. “Don’t lie to me. Just...tell me.”

Margot’s eyes narrowed. She’d never appreciated an interrogation. “Ignorance is bliss, Dr. Bloom.”

“I’m not your doctor,” Alana reminded her, hurriedly. “And that’s not why I’m asking you. I don’t care what you to do him-- I… I think he _deserves_ it.”

Margot was incredulous, to say the least. “You think he deserves it?”

Alana lifted her head shakily, sticking her chin out as she crossed her arms. “If he hurt you, if he hurt others… then he should be punished.”

That didn’t sit quite right with Margot. “Did you drink before you came?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Alana replied darkly. “How does it feel to hurt your brother?”

“It felt just,” Margot said simply, moving closer as she sat the class aside. “If you’re not asking as a psychiatrist, why are you asking?”

“ _Felt_?” Alana sounded almost... _disappointed_.

“Yes, well, his men returned when the world found out about Dr. Lecter. They all sought revenge, and Verger money is the greatest means to achieve that.” Margot met Alana’s eyes: the other woman ducked her head. “There’s very little I can get away with when they’re around.”

“I would like Hannibal to suffer,” Alana’s voice shook as she spoke. She turned to face the fire, shoulders hunched as she shivered again. “I’d like him to hurt.”

“I don’t think you would,” Margot reasoned, coming up behind her. When their shoulders brushed, Alana covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the small sob that followed.

“I _would_. God, I _hate_ him.”

“Hatred’s a very grey area,” Margot said, unsure of what else she could offer in comfort as she watched a single tear fall from Alana’s eye, golden in the light of the fire. “I’m fortunate in that respect. Mason makes it easy for me.”

It was her attempt as a joke, but it only made Alana cry harder.  
  
Margot’s hand moved of its own accord to the small of Alana’s back. She jumped in spite of herself when Alana leaned into the touch. A current of something Margot couldn't name tingled thought her veins as her fingers curled against the fabric of Alana's jumper.  
  
“I tried to kill him,” Alana said, voice thick and overflowing with failure. “I had a gun and everything, but he'd taken the bullets. I didn't think to check and I just...” She looked away, face crumpling under the weight of remembering. “I pulled the trigger. I  _wanted_ to be the one to kill him.”

“I would have wanted to be the one to paralyse Mason,” Margot agreed airly, her attention still focused on the warmth of Alana as she pressed against her side. Her words were important, yes, and later, Margot might give them some consideration: but right now, they were not as important as the way Alana had backed into her touch. “It’s a matter of control, of power.”

Alana’s eyes were wild with understanding when they caught Margot’s. “He took killing Mason away from you, just like he took killing him away from _me_.”

Margot’s mouth was suddenly dry, yet the answer came easily. It was obvious to her, even if it wasn't to Alana at that moment. “He spared us both.”

“He _stole_ from us both,” Alana clarified, hands fisting and unfisting: pent up anger that she couldn’t direct the way she was so desperate to.

“He’s accused of turning patients into murderers: but not us. Why do you think that is?” Margot didn’t wait for Alana to reply. “It’s a compliment, really.”

“It’s _insulting_ is what it is.” Alana began to pace again, stepping out of Margot’s touch delicately, like they hadn't touched at all. “It would have been worth it to me.”

“It’s easy to say that now,” Margot argued, taking to the couch where she wouldn’t risk touching Alana Bloom again, palm of her hand still burning. “You might not have felt the same had you actually been successful.”

“Would you have regretted killing Mason?” She didn’t bother to stop pacing to ask this question: perhaps because Alana already knew the answer.

“You’re not like me.” Margot closed her eyes: Alana’s pacing was beginning to make her headache. “Anyway, it all worked out. Mason is powerless, weak, vulnerable. Some day, he will be wholly dependent on me. I can exploit that. He can suffer, and somehow the balance is restored. His death would have taken that from me.” Not to mention the money she would have lost, but she didn’t think Alana would have been pleased to hear that part.

“Maybe I wish I was like you,” Alana argued. “I tried doing the right thing: I only wound up letting everyone down.” She paused to stare at Margot. “Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.”

Margot didn't bother to ask Alana how exactly she planned to do this: mostly because it seemed to her Alana had yet to figure that out herself. “Perhaps you should stop trying. Nothing is more aggravating for an enemy than indifference.”

“I used to think indifference and forgivenesswere separate things. Now, I can't help but think that they're just synonyms for surrender.” She shook her head, moving to sit beside Margot, albeit at the very edge of the couch. “I don't want to aggravate him. I want to stop him.”

“I thought a general rule of psychology was not to depend on other people to make you happy.” She'd discussed this with Dr. Heimlich at their first session, actually, her problems with her brother falling short of her apprehension regarding Alana's proposal of friendship. She hadn't told him the person in question was Dr. Bloom, and he didn't seem to have realized, focusing instead on why it was she was seeking a connection of this kind right now-- because she _could--_ and why it made her so uncharacteristically anxious.

Mason's threat had not been forgotten, but Dr. Heimlich hadn't even known about that. He'd launched into an investigation of her self-worth instead.

“I don't think it would make me happy. I think it would make this _over_.” Alana began plucking at a loose thread from the sleeve of her jumper. Quieter, she added, “I _thought_ it would be over by now.”

Margot had no explanation for what she did next: she pushed her sleeves up, revealing the faded bruises from an altercation with two of Mason's men. “I thought so too,” she said simply.

Alana's faint gasp had her regretting it, until two warm, soft hands took her wrist and smooth fingertips brushed soothingly over the offended skin. She wondered if Alana felt the hairs on her arms standing up on ends under her touch; if she too, felt the frisson between; if her stomach was tying itself into loose knots also.

Alana's earlier frustration evaporated in a flash. It was a remarkable thing, really, to watch somebody change so quickly. “Who did this to you?” She whispered, pleading eyes flickering from the bruises to Margot's face.

“It doesn't matter. I'm biding my time.” This came out intentionally chilling, enough to have Alana pausing, shutting her eyes for a moment as she seemed to come back to her senses.

Revenge was not a safe game: there were no winners. She thought Margot didn't know this, but she did. The difference between them was that Alana did not have to play, whereas Margot did not know how _not_ to.

“Margot?” Alana prompted gently, after a long silence, a small smile on her lips. “Do you think you could drive me home?”

* * *

She seemed fine to drive, in Margot's opinion, and after all she'd been drinking too, but Alana had insisted. When Margot pointed out that they would have to take Alana's car, which would mean Margot would have difficulty getting home herself.

Alana solved this by flippantly suggesting Margot stay over, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, while Margot's heart drummed in her chest and her entire body filled with dread. 

She'd never had a sleepover: had never even stayed the night in another person's house. Even when sex was involved,  à la with Will or her last serious girlfriend, Margot had been careful never to linger.

She hadn't thought to put things in a bag, although she knew she should have. Neither had she told Mason where she was going. He had help, who stayed overnight, and she made no effort to wake and alert them either. Tomorrow, there would be hell to pay. Tonight, Margot was too curious to care.

Alana hadn't questioned any of it, simply making idle small-talk as they drove, as though tonight had not been one of tears and revelations and talk of revenge.

Alana's house smelt like Jasmine and Vanilla, with an undertone of dog. Margot soon saw why, when she passed the living room, pausing in the doorway to mentally count the sleeping animals sprawled out on top of each other on Alana's rug.

“They're Will's,” Alana explained softly, and Margot remembered. “Well, mostly. Except the one in the middle-- she's mine.”

“You don't strike me as a dog person,” Margot admitted. Alana's smile was teasing, so far from the haunted one Margot had witnessed earlier.

“What kind of person do I strike you as?”

“A practical one,” Margot said flatly, hoping to diffuse whatever was bubbling inside her. “Dogs are messy.”

Alana stared at her, but Margot pretended not see out of the corner of her eye. “So are people.”

That night, Margot lay in Alana's spare bedroom dressed in a borrowed pyjama top that smelt like Alana. She hadn't envisioned being able to sleep: it was too quiet, the only sound the noise of the dog whose name she did not at her feet's soft snores. Yet, within an hour, or thereabouts, her eyes were drifting shut, despite the mild disappointment brimming in her chest.

Somewhere deep down, she'd been hoping there was more to this invitation, but while Alana's offer might not have been what she'd expected, it's effect was not lost on Margot: for the first time, she felt what she thought might be safe.


	8. We are more than our scars

She had a routine with the dogs by now, a typical feeding and walking schedule she followed religiously. It gave her days purpose, if nothing else.

This morning was different. Alana woke only a few minutes earlier than usual, the pain in her back that came from lying for long stilling her mind for a few moments before she remembered that she was not the only person in her house.

After her morning dose of pills with the lukewarm water left over from the previous day, she half-tiptoed down the hall to the spare bedroom. The door was shut tightly, but then it had been last night too: she quietly prized the handle down and opened it, wincing at the whining of the hinges.

She didn't know why she was so surprised Margot had not left in the middle of the night. It wasn't that the other woman had seemed particularly apprehensive about staying-- she'd been her usual nonchalant self, but with an edge of hesitance Alana hadn't seen before. It had been refreshing, to look at Margot and see that she was a little lost too.

Still, she'd stayed. She slept on her back, as though she were guarding both the window and the door, prepared for anything. Alana was taken by how small she seemed in the double bed, wrapped in a patterned duvet, ponytailed hair falling neat against the pillow.

Trixie's head shot up at the sound of the door opening, and with pricked ears, she lunged from the bed. The sound of her nails on the wooden floor had Alana wincing once again, but Margot did not stir.

 She eased the door closed again behind Trixie. Downstairs, she set out the dog bowls and evenly distributed the wet food while they barked atop of each other, impatient.

The coffee was burning, the dogs were full and content and there were pancakes to be flipped when Margot finally materialised, silent at the bottom of the stairs as she stood in only the pyjama top Alana had offered her and her own black boyshorts.

She could have worn her trousers from yesterday down, or she could have easily found a pair of pants in Alana's wardrobe. Yet she hadn't. Alana's cheeks burned and her mouth iched to smile at this, even if it most likely was only a ploy to test her own limits.

In the thin gap of skin between her t-shirt and Margot's underwear, Alana noticed a dark scar. Her eyes lingered for a second too long before she remembered to re-adjust them.

“Morning,” Alana greeted, focusing instead Margot's pale, bare face. She couldn't help but note that she looked years younger without makeup. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” Margot still hadn't moved from the doorway. “I slept very well. Thank you.”

Alana smiled wider, even if Margot sounded too automatic to be sincere. She motioned to a night coat slung over one of the kitchen chairs. “You can wear that, if you...um, if you're cold.”

She turned back to the stove, trying to focus on the pancakes she was burning on one side while listening to the sound of Margot's footsteps approaching her. When she turned back, Margot was slipping into the arms of the pale pink dressing gown.

“You have Will Graham's dogs,” Margot said quietly, not looking up at Alana as she fixed the silk ties around her thin waist.

“I do.” Alana moved the pan from the ring and began shifting them onto plates. “There's milk in the fridge if you take it with your coffee.”

Margot took another step closer. “I drink it black.”

“Sugar or honey?” Alana asked, resisting the urge to smirk at the way Margot's head shot up in surprise.

“What?”

“With your pancakes,” Alana elaborated. Margot's cheeks flushed faintly. 

“Oh. Either.” While Alana rooted in the cupboard for the aforementioned extras, she heard the fridge door open and close. She glanced up, raising any eyebrow at Margot, who was currently unscrewing the lid from the milk. “You take it, don't you?” The other woman answered her unvoiced question.

Nodding, Alana straightened, bottle of honey in one hand and bag of sugar in the other. “How did you know?”

“We had coffee together the first time we met,” Margot said, as though it was painfully obvious. Except Margot had gotten there after her, hadn't heard her order. She'd noticed her coffee was milky, and she'd remembered. Alana didn't know why such a small, silly detail sent a spark of excitement through her.

They ate and drank with comfortable, content small talk. Margot made a backhanded joke about Alana's pancakes, but her lips had smiled around the mug as she drank her coffee. Under the table, their feet and legs would occasionally brush, and while Alana's voice would mearly hitch before continuing to speak as if nothing had happened, more than once she felt Margot still and flinch away, her natural reaction exasperated only by nerves. A second later Margot would shift her chair closer again, licking honey from her lips as she held Alana's eye and tapping her long, delicate fingers smugly in a way that suggested she knew Alana was talking but with no real idea of what she was actually _saying_.

Margot helped her load the dishwasher, and then made an excuse about checking her phone upstairs, tugging on the ties of the dressing gown mock-idly in a way that was both frustrating and endearing all at once. The loose silk sleeves were too long for Margot's arms, and they hid the bruises: still though, Alana knew they were there, and it made her feel so horribly helpless.

She opened the door for the dogs while she cleaned their bowls. Margot returned-- fully dressed now, her ponytail re-adjusted, and cleared her throat to get Alana's attention. “I have a missed call from one of Mason's carers. I have to go.”

“Give me a minute to change: I'll drive you.”

 “No. No, it's fine. It's better if you don't.” The weight in Margot's voice had the hair on the back of Alana's neck standing up on ends.

  _Better for who?_ “I'll drop you at the end of the driveway. You drove me home last night-- I'm just returning the favour.”

Margot half-snorted: it seemed she hadn't believed Alana's last-minute excuse, either. Still, she sighed and took the same seat Alana had sat in at the table, holding her hand out for one of the dogs to sniff.

“I wasn't so sure you'd wait,” Alana admitted, fifteen minutes later when she returned to the kitchen to find Margot flicking through a catalogue. 

“No?”

“No.” Alana slipped into her boots and coat simultaneously. “I hoped you would, though. I'm glad you did.”

In the car, Alana mentioned that she planned to visit Will after dropping Margot home. “It's on my way,” she said, an attempt to justify it to herself rather than Margot.

It had only been a day, and deep down somewhere she might still have been angry at him, but Alana knew when she owed someone an apology.

Beside her, in the passenger seat, Margot seemed to still. “Are you and Will Graham...?” She let the half-sentence hang between them, so unlike her usual straightforwardness, which was why Alana knew to risk a glance across at her. Margot's expression seemed fairly neutral, but her teeth were biting her lip from the inside, her hands clasped together, clenched fingers: she was tense.

“Are we...?” Alana returned, the sheer ridiculousness not lost on her. “It isn't anything really. We're just...” Just _what_? _Friends_? She'd accused him of helping Hannibal hold Abigail hostage the previous day. If that hadn't signified the end of their friendship-- which had been awkward at best before-- then she didn't know what would.

“You aren't sleeping together?” She hadn't thought Margot would ask her that straight out, although her honesty was refreshing. Alana didn't want more tiptoed manipulation; no more light lies. Maybe that was why she was so drawn to her. 

“No,” Alana said, barely managing to repress a strangled laugh. “No. We're not. He's not...” She thought for a moment, and then she glanced in the mirror to see Margot staring at her, wide eyes and dilated pupils and frequent blinking. The words had already passed her lips when Alana thought to consider them, “He's not my type.”

Neither of them spoke the rest of the drive, and for a few long horrible moments Alana clutched the steering wheel with panicked, sweaty hands. Oh God, had she just made a complete fool of herself? _Why_ had she said that to Margot, given how it sounded? And, then, why did she feel so disappointed that she hadn't gotten a response?

She stopped at the end of Margot's drive, as per their agreement. Margot turned to her. “Tomorrow?”

Alana smiled in relief. She nodded, head pressed against her seat as she watched Margot climb out of her car. “Tomorrow,” she agreed happily.

* * *

 

It felt strange to visit Will and not be greeted by the dogs. He opened the door to her and quickly invited her in from the cold, even though she would have wholly understood if he hadn't.

“Alana--” he began, voice full of a dozen pent up emotions; speech practised perhaps, but she shook her head and raised her hand, silencing him.

 “I didn't come here to fight with you.” She glanced around his living room: the maps of Europe littered with coloured pins, the cut-out newspaper articles arranged in some sort of order on his floor, because there were too many for a table. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and his hair was longer than he usually kept it. His layers of clothing hung loose on his thin frame, and she understood why he was wearing so many jackets because the house was _freezing._

He'd been so busy trying to take care of things, he'd neglected to take care of himself.

She didn't feel guilty, at least not about this: he was a grown man and he would make his decisions without her input; he had been alone for years and had managed just fine; it was not her responsibility to look after him.

It might not have been her fault, but that didn't mean Alana didn't feel compelled to fix it.

“What do you need me to do?” Her words took him by surprise. Something in his eyes flickered.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you need, Will?” She glanced at the mess on the floor. “How can help you?”

Sighing, he sat back on the couch and rubbed his face with his hands. “You can believe me when I say I did not know Abigail was alive.” He looked up at her, eyebrows raised in anticipation for a hostile retort. “I wouldn't have... I wouldn't have let any of that happen.”

Dropping to her knees beside the newspaper clippings, Alana picked a few up in turn, but was careful to set them back in the same order Will had arranged. They were mostly about potential sightings of Hannibal: some weren't even in English, the rough translation scrawled above each word in Will's messy writing.

“How many have you looked into?”

Will sat forward, looking over her shoulder at the one she was reading. “All of them.”

“Have you spoken to the Italian police?”

“They aren't interested in speaking to me.” There was an edge to his voice that suggested a number of doors had been slammed in his face already to drive him to this conclusion. “They're almost as bad as the FBI. They're trying to sweep it under the carpet, too.”

Alana nodded, sympathetically. “So what happens now?”

“There's a detective who might give me the time of day. He has a history with Hannibal, even if he won't admit it to the press.”

“What do you mean, 'a _history_ '?” The thought that Hannibal had done this before, and that he'd been allowed to do it again didn't sit well with her. If he'd already escaped twice, why should this third time be any different?

“I don't know yet. That's why I came back. People need incentives to talk.” When she didn't say anything, Will clarified, “ _Money._ I have to make it worth their time.”

She'd been envisioning him with another handgun. Still, she wasn't convinced it was money that he needed. “ _And_ the risk. You're careful, aren't you?” She knew how he would take this: with accusation and paranoia. She didn't care.

“Of course.” He didn't sound offended. She supposed she'd crossed that line yesterday. “I don't want anyone else to get dragged into this mess when they don't have to.”

“Have you spoken to Jack?”

Will snorted. “It took ten minutes for him to through his chequebook at me. I don't know where he thinks _he's_ getting the money.” There was a pause. “He wants to come with me back to Italy.”

“What did you say?” She sat back on her heels, turning to look at Will.

“I told him that we'd talk about it.” Under different circumstances, the irony of this role reversal would be resonated with them both. “What do I say, Alana? Being here is killing him. You know how he is. I couldn't stop him if I wanted to.”

“He's killing _himself_ ,” Alana clarified, three spiteful words echoing in her mind: _what about me?_ With both of them gone, she would truly be alone. “He hasn't had the chance to grieve properly for his wife, he's been so caught up in this. Don't put this on him.” Will didn't answer: a sure confirmation that her opinion was probably not going to factor into his final decision. Then, Alana got to her feet. “It shouldn't be on you either. What if you didn't go back?”

“You said yourself we have to stop him.” His eyes followed her to the door. He stood, too. “If we don't do it, who will? What if he starts ripping again? It's our fault he got away.”

He said 'our' fault, but Alana knew he blamed himself; just as Jack did, just as _she_ did. Out of sight wasn't out of mind, not by any stretch of the imagination.

“Just be careful,” she said, as he crossed the room to stand by the door she had just opened. “Be careful and be smart and...well, you know the rest. You don't need me to tell you.” She'd already turned away on the doorstep when she forced herself to turn back. “I was upset yesterday. Angry. I'd been drinking and you were just _there._ ” She looked at the space between them, and tried to remember a time it would have been comfortable to cross it. “I believe you, when you say you didn't know about Abigail. I just wanted someone to blame who wasn't myself.”

At the sound of Abigail's name, whatever fire had died in Will was once again relit. “Blame Hannibal Lecter,” he suggested. “I do.”


	9. Count your blessings not your flaws

The rain was heavy, coming down thick and fast when she arrived at Margot's the next day. She considered waiting it out in the car, but then she spotted a light on in the stable and decided it was worth braving the cold and the wet to see Margot with the horses again.

She found Margot outside, trying to coax one into the dry stable. When she saw Alana, she waved her away.

“Go wait inside,” she called, and now that the reality of the rain brought with it damp, fizzy hair and a soaking coat, she did not need telling twice.

She ducked her head and ran to the front door, wiping her feet on the personalised welcome mat and taking care to shake herself off on the porch.

In the kitchen, she set about making something to warm Margot up. She didn't know if she'd eaten already, so she settled for a drink. It almost surprised her to find the familiar tub of chocolate powder: she hadn't envisioned Margot as a hot chocolate drinker. It was a nice surprise, the kind that made her smile to herself; another intimate little fact about the other woman she tucked away in her mind.

“You must be a friend of Margot's.”

The sweetness of her new discovery died on her tongue. She'd never heard the voice before, nor did she need to have. She turned on her heel to see a wheelchair bound Mason Verger in the doorway.

A spiteful part of Alana wanted to say that _yes_ , that's exactly what she was.  But then, her next thought was of what potential implications this could have for Margot. She thought of the bruises on her wrists and her stomach churned.

The thought that something she'd said being the cause for Margot being hurt made her feel physically repulsed.

“I'm Mason, of course. I'm sure Margot's told you all about me.” The strain in his voice came from his inability to punctuate properly, from what Alana could tell. Whether or not he actually intended to sound threatening was another thing. Once again, Alana settled for silence. “I'd shake your hand,” he continued, “but I can't. Obviously. Still! I do _love_ meeting Margot's friends. It's a rare occurrence, as I'm _sure_ you can imagine.”

She stood up a little straighter, hands bracing the bench behind her. “I assumed neither of you had many visitors.”

“You assumed correctly! We have each other, Margot and I. _We're_ all we need.” He said this with such confidence it almost made Alana nauseous. Sibling co-dependency was one thing: obsession and emotional manipulation even without a history of physical abuse was another. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't,” Alana replied, pasting on a smile.

“Tricky,” Mason said slowly, the clicking of his tongue the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Alana wanted to step back, step _out,_ but she stood her ground and stared directly into his eyes. If Margot was brave enough to live with him, she could handle a few minutes alone in a room together.

At the sound of the front door slamming shut, Alana jumped.

“Alana?” Margot stopped dead in the hallway, behind Mason's chair-- Alana couldn't see her face, but she'd heard the footsteps. “ _Mason_?”

“Don't panic, _my_ dear Margot. I was just chatting with your friend.” It seemed he saved a special kind of sinister smirk for his sister. “You don't mind me talking to Dr. Bloom, surely?”

“I think it's time you used your tongue to leave, don't you?”

Alana didn't understand this statement until she saw Mason's tongue flick backwards, hear the loud hum as the wheelchair came roared to life again.

“It was a pleasure,” he called after her, never taking his eyes off his sister as he moved down the hallway.

When the noise of the wheelchair had faded, Alana turned back to the hot chocolate she'd started to make. “Did you get the horses settled okay? I heard some lightening on my way over-- will they be alright?”

“What did you say to my brother?”

“You _heard_ what I said.” She glanced over her shoulder at Margot. “ _Nothing_.”

“He knows your name.” Margot's voice was cold, unflinching, and when Alana wasn't sure whether it was her words or her tone that worried her more. Stilling, she turned around to face her.

“I didn't--” She shook her head, replaying what little she _had_ said. “I didn't tell him my name.”

“What _did_ you tell him? What did he say to _you_?” Margot's eyes were dark, and seemed glazed: for a second, Alana felt like the other woman was looking right through her. If she hadn't been so confused, she might have marvelled at the fact Margot could cause her to shiver with guilt when she hadn't done a single thing wrong.

“Nothing. Well, nothing important anyway.” She took a step toward Margot. Margot pointedly took a step back. It felt like a slap after the intimacy they'd built up over the last few days. “What's wrong? Margot, talk to me.”

“You need to leave.” Margot's eyes narrowed. “You _should_ leave. I would like you to leave.”

 _Leave, leave, leave._ Margot was throwing her out?

She told herself she shouldn't be hurt: she had no right to expect trust from Margot. Trust was such a delicate thing. If Alana hadn't earned it yet, it was her fault, not Margot's.

“I'm sorry,” she said, even though she wasn't. Still she knew sometimes that just hearing the words could help; knowing that someone even cared enough to pretend could be a comfort when everything seemed so wrong. “I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't mean--”

 _\--to get you in trouble._ She shook this thought from her head quickly. God, what was she _doing_ , allowing Margot to live like this?

The wall was already up in Margot's eyes, and Alana knew any logical pleas would be rejected immediately. She needed to choose her moment to suggest intervention carefully: this was not it.

“I'll go then,” she said evenly, never taking her eyes off Margot as she moved toward the doorway and the other woman moved away. “But you can call me if you need to.”

Margot raised an eyebrow as if to say _as if,_ but the fact she was even still listening sparked hope inside Alana.

* * *

That night, the knock on her door was gentle, hesitant. She knew immediately it wasn't Will: Jack, or one of her brothers, would have called first.

She let Margot inside and took her coat wordlessly. Alana didn't know who was supposed to apologize, so she offered Margot a drink instead.

When they were settled in the living room with two glasses of wine and a total of five words spoken between them (“Is red wine alright?” “Yes”) Alana risked a small smile of reassurance.

“I'm glad you came.” She took a sip of wine. “I'm glad you're not mad enough to stay away.”

Margot had not yet looked at her. “There's something I should have told you.”

 “Oh?” Alana leaned forward, heart hammering in her chest as she tried to remain indifferent; to stop herself from grasping Margot's hands in her own, if only to still the slight tremor she saw there.

 _You don't have to be afraid of me,_ she wanted to say. _I would never hurt you._

“My brother. He...threatened to hurt you.” Margot's eyes flickered from the wallpaper she'd been so focused on to Alana: she saw the sorry in her eyes.

No matter how ridiculous it sounded, Alana didn't laugh-- to Margot, this was serious. “I just met your brother this morning,” she reminded her.

“It doesn't matter if he's met you. All that matters is that _I_ have.” Her eyes moved to the carpet. She gave a small shrug but it had little to do with apathy and everything to do with the invisible weight there. “He will destroy anyone I form an attachment to. He doesn't like it when I have connections.”

“How does that feel?” Alana asked, before she could stop herself. When Margot turned to her, she shut her eyes. “Forget I said that. Slip of the tongue. I'm sorry.”

“It _feels_ lonely,” Margot responded flatly. When Alana opened her eyes, Margot was staring at her with an expression of remorse. Alana almost forgot to breathe. The far emotion in Margot's face was too much, too suddenly. She hadn't expected it; hadn't thought she'd  done enough to deserve this raw glimpse into Margot's pain. “But it's easier to terminate relationships than it is to maintain them with my brother around. I thought I should warn you.”

“What if your brother wasn't around?” She wanted a way out, Alana knew she did-- she just didn't now how.

“Then I would have _nothing_ ,” Margot's tone _dared_ Alana to argue. She was too intelligent for Alana to approach this gently. She heard the suggestion before it had been voiced. “The situation is merely temporary. Eventually, his men will tire of waiting for orders. When it's just the two of us again, he won't be _able_ to do anything.”

“No amount of money is worth what they're doing to you, Margot.”

“It goes beyond money.” Margot tapped her fingers. “You don't understand.”

No, she _didn't_ \-- and she couldn't claim to. No matter how much hatred she had for Hannibal bubbling within her, it was incomparable to the kind of physical and emotional pain a sister suffered at the hands of her brother; the kind of pain she was still being subjected to.

“I know Mason's been arrested before." For his treatment of the children who'd been there for camp. It had taken a lot of digging, though pages and pages of various internet searches. It seemed that the influence of Margot's parents had kept it largely out of the headlines. "Have _you_ ever spoken to the police?”

“My father bought away Mason's problems then-- it won't be any different now.” Margot turned to her, a edge to her voice. “If you tell anyone, I will deny it. I will _not_ loose to Mason.”

Alana wished there was something she could say that would stop Margot from seeing it as a war. But there wasn't: a woman's resolve is a powerful thing and just as she hadn't been persuaded by Will's warnings, Margot would ignore hers. 

There were some things you just had to let people figure out for themselves. Sometimes the only solution is to wait it out, and offer wholehearted support. 

Maybe all Margot really needed was the confirmation that there was something other than her family's money and her brother's abuse, something _more_. 

“I'm a psychiatrist, and that means I have an obligation to help-- sometimes, even when someone doesn't want me to, if I think they're in danger: or that they might be a danger to someone else.” She touched Margot's wrist and kept her hand there, even after the other woman flinched away. “But I'm also your friend. Or at least, I think I am. And I don't want to make this decision for you. I don't want to be someone else who takes it away from you.”

“You care about me,” Margot said, as though the fact had just this second occurred to her. She eyed Alana, maybe even expecting her to object. 

 “I do,” Alana admitted. “And I can't stand the thought of your brother, or anyone else, hurting you. I don't want you to feel lonely and I don't want you to feel like you have to protect me.” _God she sounded like a sentimental idiot._ She stared hard at Margot, wanting what she'd wanted to say for days now to stick with her, if nothing else she ever said did _._ “But I don't want to save you, Margot. I want you to save yourself. I'd like to make you _want_ to.”  

She could tell Margot was leaning in closer as she spoke; could feel the magnetic pull that her moving lips were having on Margot's eyes. 

Yet the idea of moving away, putting distance between the two of them, lingered in her mind only fleetingly. The fluttering feeling in her stomach replaced anything that might have been apprehension: _butterflies_ , and she felt sixteen again as her cheeks burned.

She knew what was coming seconds before Margot's lips brushed against hers, a fleeting taste of warmth and wine. Shifting her head, Margot whispered, “You _do_ ,” against Alana's flushed cheek and she smiled before turning to meet Margot's lips in a much deeper, but just as tender, kiss.

She tickled the roof of Margot's mouth with the tip of her tongue while the other woman's hand came up to cup her face. At the feel of Margot's teeth grating along her bottom lip, a shiver snaked down her spine: the perfect antidote to the constant ache there.  **  
**

When they broke away, Margot ducked her forehead, even as it pressed against Alana's.  

"You thought warning me about Mason would scare me away, didn't you?" This came out as a panted whisper, but it made Margot smile, so Alana decided it was worth it. 

"You don't know what my brother's capable of," she said, and if Alana had any ounce of self-preservation left maybe she should have heeded this, but her lips were dry with the need for another kiss; her hands had found Margot's, their fingers interwoven now, and the thought of letting go for any reason seemed to ridiculous.  **  
**

Alana had made dangerous moves for a lot less; she wanted Margot to see that _she_ was worth a lot _more_. 

"You scare me much more than he does," she admitted, and she smiled into another kiss when Margot's eyes sparked with pleasant surprise. "And he doesn't know what _we're_ capable of." 


	10. just whisper, i swear i can hear you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week, and this first one might seem particularly heavy in terms of dialogue but there are a lot of conversations here which I think needed to happen. I'm nowhere near as interested in writing a 'revenge' fic as I am a recovery one, and I feel like that needed to be clear so no one reading is disappointed with the directions I take. 
> 
> I know it sounds silly, but this story is really very special to me, so the positive feedback has truly meant the world. I kept this to myself for so long because I didn't think anyone would want it-- if you've read this far, thank you for proving me wrong. 
> 
> Wishing you a Happy New Year and a lovely week ahead.

 It seemed Alana Bloom was relentless with her unpredictable behaviour, which was so far from what Margot had expected upon first pursing her. First, she hadn't allowed Margot to push her away, despite being too professional to be her psychiatrist; then, there had been the night on Margot's doorstep, the untamed fury directed at Hannibal Lecter, the eye of a storm in Margot's living room, a juxtaposed conversation of anger and intimacy; now, she was a breath away, her hands cupping Margot's face as she deepened the kiss which might have been their fourth or their fifth in as many minutes, her words still ringing in Margot's ears: “ _he doesn't know what we're capable of.”_

She’d never been happier to be proved wrong, but neither had she ever been more apprehensive. While Margot’s survival instincts felt like they’d be set on fire, a voice in her mind screaming at her to run, she still found herself shifting closer to Alana, tilting her head, parting her lips, setting a rhythm that quickly caught on.

By the time Margot had lost count of how long they’d been like that-- kissing on Alana’s sofa with their hands on each other’s faces, in each other’s hair, breaking away every so often to breathe with their foreheads still pressed together because any more distance than that felt physically _impossible_ \-- her previously solid walls of defense had crumbled. She was no longer questioning what was in this for Alana: her only thoughts were of Alana’s perfume and Alana’s lips and the hitched rise and fall of her chest as she laughed breathlessly against Margot’s skin.

“I thought I’d misread your signals,” Alana said with a blush, smiling as rubbed her lips with the back of her hand, rubbing  away the traces of Margot’s red lipstick. “But it looks like I was right.”

“It does.” Margot wasn’t quite ready for more talking, but pulling Alana back to her might come across as desperate or a deflecting mechanism.  Suddenly, how Alana saw her was of new significance. “You were quicker than I imagined, actually,” she admitted, head falling against the back of Alana’s sofa. 

She had expected more flirting would be required on her part, more forwardness. She hadn’t expected Alana to be brave enough to initiate a kiss, especially not when she was still treading so carefully around Margot.

Alana stared at her for a beat longer than Margot thought necessary, perhaps reconsidering herself. Then, she moved back, pulling her pajama-bottomed knees to her chest, and they were facing each other again. “I need you to promise me something.”

After what Alana had said before, and the succession of kisses which followed, there was very little Margot would, at present, object to promising her. Still, she valued her pride enough to pretend. “What is it?”

Alana took a deep breath, which was how Margot knew to hold her own. “Almost everyone I have cared about for the last year and a half has screwed me over in _some_ way or another and I...I made it easy for them, I guess, so I accept the blame for that... but I don’t think I have it in me to be proved wrong again.” Her eyes were wide, and Margot wondered why it had taken her this long to realize what a beautiful shade of blue they were. It wasn’t sky-blue or ocean-blue or the blue of any flower Margot had ever seen. They were a pale, bruised blue; the shade of nail polish Margot had worn every day of her fourteenth year until she bottle was dry; the colour of glacial ice that had only just begun to melt.  When she shut those blue eyes in effort to string her next sentence together, Margot almost mourned the loss. “Don’t prove me wrong, Margot.”

“And how would I do that?” She wanted a guideline, a rulebook. She wanted a clear path to everything Alana had offered. She wanted to know there was a way to make this last, longer than being Alana’s patient had.

Eyes open again now, they sparkled with something that resembled mischief. What was coming next was a joke, and Margot had never been able to read someone as well as she could Alana Bloom in this moment. With a cocked eyebrow and a wry smile, she asked,“ do you want to know where the bar stands, Margot?”

“I want to know how they hurt you,” she admitted, with more honesty than she’d probably given anyone in years, “so that _I_ don’t.”

Alana didn’t waste any time before moving for another kiss, and people had smiled against Margot’s lips before but not because of anything she’d said; not because she’d given them goosebumps or because there was a warmth in their chest that they couldn’t place because of her or because she’d packed everything they needed to hear for months into one single sentence.

People had smiled against Margot’s lips before, but this was the first time she’d smiled back. 

* * *

It took less willpower than it should have to lead Margot upstairs and stop outside her spare bedroom.

The other woman was clearly surprised-- after all, Alana had been remarkable at talking the talk downstairs, had even made the first move, for God’s sake-- but she thankfully refrained from commenting. When Alana brought her another spare pair of pajamas-- with bottoms, this time-- Margot simply raised an eyebrow before beginning to strip in front of her.

She slipped out of the room when Margot was down to her bra, offering just an awkward “goodnight,” and a weak smile as she averted her eyes and silently rejected the idea of kissing Margot one last time.

It should have felt like the right thing to do, and logically, of course Alana knew that it _was_ , but it was more complicated than her making a point about being an easy lay. She felt relieved to have gotten away with it, as if sleeping with Margot was a chore, when in reality it should have been the easiest thing in the world after everything that had been said and done downstairs.

What was so frustrating was she had _meant_ it when she said she cared about Margot, and after how heated things had gotten following just a few kisses, there was no question about whether or not she was attracted to her. Yet still, the thought of going any further caused her insides to tie into intricate knots and her throat to dry and her self-esteem to plummet. She wished it had more to do with not wanting to take advantage of Margot than it did not wanting to be taken advantage of _herself_.

In bed that night, she made a list of all the reasons why she shouldn’t be afraid, and immediately her subconscious countered each with another reason why she _should_.

It was just sex, for one thing, except Alana had never been very good at ‘just sex.’ She was already emotionally involved and invested and when it all went to hell she would be left violated physically, as well as emotionally.

It might be different, this time: it might _not_ be.

She’d been with women before: well, correction, she’d been with one girl, in college, and one woman, in a bar. The first had lasted only weeks and the latter only minutes: both were now only foggy recollections in her mind, clouded by time and alcohol and the impulsiveness diverged from lust. 

Margot was attracted to her, and maybe she had been for as long as they had known each other. Margot had said she didn’t want to hurt Alana, that she _wanted_ to be different, and trust was something Alana was making a point of exercising with her. If she expected Margot to trust her, it was important to reciprocate that.

Then again, the last person she’d thought had been attracted to her had probably only been entertaining her to hurt Will Graham, and for all she knew had been fucking Bedelia Du Maurier on the side the whole time; the last person time she demonstrated trust and the benefit of the doubt with and the last time she _gave_ herself sexually to anyone, he’d betrayed her and he’d used her and then he’d walked away.  He’d stepped over that intimacy the night he stepped over her, and while Margot may have been different from Hannibal in many ways, Alana didn’t think the emotional importance they placed on sex would be of vast contrast.

Sleeping with Margot would make her feel better, maybe, but only for as long as it lasted. It might be the only way she’d ever get rid of the stain of Hannibal that lingered on her skin-- to replace it with the touch of someone else; but, of course, Margot was already more to her than a rebound.

She fell asleep trying to convince herself that her concerns didn’t mean it wouldn’t feel right-- simply that it couldn’t right _now._ She was still struggling to get herself back and if the thought of being that superficially vulnerable with another person brought even a hint of discomfort, then she was doing them both a favour by holding off.

* * *

The next morning, as they ate toast together at her kitchen table, Margot asked Alana why she was afraid of her.

“You said I scare you more than Mason does,” Margot reminded her, while the other woman pretended to be incredibly distracted with stirring her coffee. “What did you mean?”

Alana made a point of drinking from her cup before answering, probably trying to formulate the perfect answer now she’d had sleep and time and distance. “It’s not _you_ , exactly.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It’s more…” she set the cup down and trailed a finger around the rim, watching herself steadily. “It’s more how I _feel_ about you.”

“It scares you that you care about me?” Margot understood, of course, but it didn’t seem plausible that she and Alana Bloom could have this in common. Surely a psychiatrist, a teacher, a criminal profiler, _had_ to care about people?

Alana looked up at her and nodded. “It doesn’t scare _you_?”

Margot chose not to answer this. It seemed futile, when Alana already knew the answer. “I told you last night, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Alana’s eyes softened as she took another sip of coffee, then held the cup in her hands delicately. “I know you don’t. But that’s just it: people don’t _mean_ to hurt me, or at least I don’t think they do. It’s not always planned, it’s not even always entirely their fault. I have this knack for getting caught in the crossfire without even realizing.”

She was talking about Will and Hannibal, obviously, but Margot’s mind automatically supplied Mason’s eyes: the dark, leering way he’d looked at Alana as she’d stood in the kitchen, glancing from one of them to the other. Margot had invited her into the lion’s den without even meaning to: she’d gotten her out again without Alana even _realizing_ she’d been there. “I warned you about my brother.”

“Your brother can’t hurt me-- not in the way _I_ mean, anyway.” Alana sat forward. “I don’t mean physically. I mean being betrayed, being lied to or used. _That_ kind of hurt.”

Margot had been hurt before, naturally, but the hurt she remembered feeling was the angry kind, the kind born from injustice and fostered during years of being too young, too small, too weak to fight back; the kind of hurt that sent boiling blood pulsing through her veins, the kind of hurt that made her want to scream until her throat was raw but only served to reduce her to silence. It wasn’t the kind of hurt you felt pierce your heart, as the bile rose in your throat and cold tears stained your cheeks; it was the kind of hurt that made you punch through walls until your knuckles bled, made you tear them down to admire the wreckage, made you rebuild them with stronger bricks.

She was learning hurt wasn’t so much an adjective or noun as it was a spectrum. Margot’s hurt may have been high functioning, through years of self-treatment, while Alana’s was still fresh, wounds still open and stinging when touched.

“I won’t do any of that if you don’t.” She said this while feeding a toast crust to one of the dogs, so she wouldn’t have to look at Alana as she spoke. Margot didn’t typically shy away from eye contact, but the insinuation of her own words made her uncomfortable: she wasn’t in the habit of letting people close enough for the fear of betrayal or deceit to even be a possibility.

Alana was smiling when she looked back up, but there was hesitance in her eyes: maybe she’d heard that before, too. “I think we’ll be fine then,” she said, and for the first time, Margot didn’t believe her.

Changing the subject came easily. She’d barely managed to contain her next question this long.  “We need to decide what we’re going to do about my brother,” Margot announced, turning back to the table and tapping her fingers against it while the dog at her feet whined for more. “That is, assuming you still want to help me?”

Alana’s smile faltered. “Of course I still want to help you.”

“Right, well, my hands are currently tied, what with his men...there must be a time though-- a time when he’s alone. I’ll have to pay more attention.” She'd laid awake most of the night, considering her options. During supper would be a perfect time, while the men ate, Mason still too proud to have them spoon-feed him. She’d stopped taking pleasure from this aspect of his lost mobility months ago and when it began to bring only a dull buzz, she’d deemed it a waste of her time. Someone else took care of him now: a private nurse. If Margot needed to, she could get to them.

She’d even considered how she would do it, how she could kill him: poison in his food; strangulation as a back-up, if that proved tricky to obtain.

“ What do you mean your hands are tied?” Narrowed eyes, and Alana didn’t seem quite so idyllic in the light of the morning: she was slower, for one thing.

“ To kill him,” Margot said frankly, picking up her cup and giving it a small wave. “Was there more in the pot?”

“ I didn’t say I would help you kill your brother, Margot.” Alana didn’t sound panicked, like she had days ago when this had first been eluded to: she sounded firm. “I don’t _want_ you to kill your brother. I want you to get away from him.”

“The only way I can get away from him,” Margot said, through gritted teeth, “is by death. I certainly don’t intend to allow him to outlive me.”

Alana didn’t look away-- she wasn’t put off by talk of death. A brush with mortality would do that, Margot supposed. “There are _other_ ways. You just don’t like them as much.”

“They don’t _work_ .” Margot wasn’t about to let Alana’s second thoughts deter her. Even if she _had_ misunderstood last night, heard what she wanted to hear, it was only because Alana had made things so damn cryptic: because maybe, Alana wasn't sure what she'd meant either. “And I’m not suggesting it's as black and white as that. He'll need to be deemed insane, first. I need to ensure his death will be financially beneficial.”

She knew Alana had rejected the idea of evaluating Mason, but that was weeks ago. Things were different now. She _cared_ about Margot now; they were working _together_ ; she wanted to _help_. She’d made the decision for herself that Margot was worth the risk of Mason’s potential revenge.

“You don't think that would look ridiculously suspicious? Margot you're not making sense, and you know it.” Alana sat back in her chair. “The other night, when I came to your house--”

“ -- when you told me you wanted to _kill_ Hannibal Lecter for what he put you through? Yes, I remember.” It was burned into her mind now: the first time she’d seen someone else with a similar splinter lodged deep inside them, watched as the pressured hold on both ends of the wood conspired to break it apart from the middle as Alana fell apart in front of her. Margot had never been anybody’s go-to before, certainly not in a time of what must have been some sort of emotional crisis. She wondered why, looking back, it felt more like a _compliment_  than the burden it had seemed at the time.

“I don’t believe I used those _exact_ words,” Alana replied, dryly, picking up on Margot's sharp hint in no time at all, “but yes. That night, you told me Hannibal did us both a favour. For me, it was taking the bullets from my gun, so I wouldn’t do something I’d regret. For you, it was paralyzing Mason, so you wouldn’t kill him and have to live with the consequences of that.”

Margot barely resisted the urge to snort. “You didn’t believe me. You said he took that away from us. It was just another way of maintaining power.”

Alana didn’t miss a beat. She frowned, and leaned forward again. "What if I was wrong?”

“I know you’re just trying to manipulate me,” Margot argued, folding her arms. “You hate him. You think he’s a monster. You think he made my life more difficult by paralyzing Mason.”

“I will never try to manipulate you, Margot,” Alana said, expression and tone indicative of such seriousness that Margot found herself looking away again, almost _sorry_ for doubting her. “And I _know_ I’m not impartial. He hurt me. I can’t see the good in anything else he’s done, and I won’t be able to for a long time. But, if _you_ think that what he did was helpful then…  it’s not up to me to argue that.”

“Are you saying I should learn to be content with what’s been done?” What Margot really wanted to say was, _I thought you were on my side,_ “ that things are as good for me as they’ll ever be?”

“Of course not. What I’m saying is, you knew three days ago, and you know _now_ , that murdering Mason isn’t going to give you the the kind of future you deserve.”

Margot was relieved she didn't ask what had changed, because then she might have to admit that Alana had-- or, rather, their _relationship_ had. It was one thing for Mason to threaten the psychiatrist Margot wasn't quite sure how she'd befriended but could still easily push away; it was another thing entirely for him to already know the name-- and God knows what else-- of someone who had held Margot's hand and looked into her eyes as she relentlessly worked herself into Margot's heart.

Margot wasn't about to let him take someone else away from her. Killing him was a much better alternative than losing something she only just realized she's been needing. This time, she was certain she wouldn't fail. This time, Margot would protect at all costs.  
There was the chance Alana would see this as obsessive, as unhealthy. She might put more distance between them, and to Margot, that didn't seem wildly different from if Mason did.

If Margot told her about the origins of the scar across her stomach, Alana might finally understand: she suspected Alana had felt something maternal toward the Hobbs girl and if so, she might finally see Mason the same way she saw Hannibal. Alana's eyes would water and she would take Margot's hands again and she would understand why it was Margot had to cling _so_ tightly to the things she wanted; why she had suddenly become so fierce now she had another chance at a connection.

But that would involve Alana feeling sorry for her, which so far, Margot thought she'd managed to keep to an impressive minimum. Or, it might be the thing that sent Alana to the police, which would put her in even more danger.

Margot knew she couldn't win. Not even twenty-four hours from her promise, Margot broke it for the first time with a half-lie.

"The _money_ willl give me the kind of life I deserve," she said, because that was a neater explanation. _It's the money; it's my greed._ Part of it, yes, but not the full story. Not by a long shot.

Alana couldn’t have been more disinterested in or disapproving of Margot’s quest for money if she’d actively made a point of it, it seemed. She didn’t even grace Margot’s comment with a direct response. Instead, she got up from her seat and came around the other side of the table, to sit in the chair beside Margot.

“It’s okay that you can’t forgive him, Margot. It’s _natural_ and I don’t blame you. He hasn’t done anything to earn your forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it, and maybe he never will.” Alana was staring at her again, in that way that made Margot think she could see through it all, see through _her._ She wondered why, during this inspiring speech, Alana didn’t reach for her like she had the night before. If she didn’t want to distract from her words or if the thought of being involved in a plot to kill Mason had unsettled her so much she was already regretting getting involved with Margot. She took a measured breath, and then continued, “but it’s _not_ okay to bury yourself in trying to destroy him, to devote your time and your energy to making him suffer. You aren’t defined by what he did and your future shouldn’t be defined by killing him. I won’t help you destroy your brother, not because I don’t think he should be punished, but because it would be helping to destroy _you_.”

“You’re not _listening_.” Margot wanted to add that Alana was severely overestimating her moral compass, but she thought better of it. “I’m _trying_ to helpmyself.”

Alana’s smile was weak. “I _am_ listening, Margot. I’m just the first person who can hear what you’re _really_ saying. This isn’t about getting what you want. This isn’t about money. It’s about taking something from Mason. It’s about stealing something that means everything to him. It’s about having the power over him that he’s had over you.You just want to win.”

“And if it is?” Margot pressed. “Why does that bother you?”

“Because I’ve played enough games,” Alana said simply. “I’m tired of playing referee. And I can’t get involved with someone else who looks at life like that.”

Margot wanted to resent this, but she couldn’t. Reluctantly, she admired Alana for fighting her way out of the corner she’d backed her into.

“There is a way for you to have security and justice without sacrificing all the parts of you he hasn’t touched. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will help you find it, if you let me.” Alana shook her head, smile forgotten as she looked at the space between them, to make her point. “But I won’t be privy to a murder. I won’t be your alibi. I won’t condone that and I won’t forgive it and I certainly won’t protect you because you _know_ the difference between right and wrong. Hannibal changed the way I look at things, the way people look at me, but I won’t let him change the way I look at myself. I won’t let you do that, either.”

“Yet you expect me to change?”

Alana looked positively exasperated with the conversation. Evidently, she’d expected it to finish with her wise words. She was accustomed to getting the last word. “I _expect_ you not to murder your brother. I don’t think that’s asking an awful lot, Margot.”

 _You have no idea,_ Margot thought. “What do you suggest I do, then?”

“Continue to go to therapy with Dr. Heimlich. Stay here, as much as you need to. Avoid being alone, or even remotely alone, with your brother and his men. Spend more time with the horses. Don’t isolate yourself. Show your brother your life amounts to more than him.” Her words reminded her of Will’s the day he’d visited her in hospital: _show your brother how strong you are...survive him._

“You should write fortune cookies,” Margot said dryly, and Alana smiled at her until her own lips began to turn up at the ends and she was left with no choice but to roll her eyes.

“Abusers hate losing control, Margot. Hannibal rendered him weak, physically, and that gave you room to breathe-- I can see that now, but you’re not free yet. You have to do that part for yourself. You have to leave and mean it, or you have to go to the police and be willing to make a greater impact than the checks he’ll throw their way. But the way things are now...the more you hate him, the tighter the hold he has on your thoughts and your feelings and your actions.”

“Who do you think he’ll blame for that? Who would he send his men after?” When Alana didn’t answer, Margot nodded toward her. “He knows your _name_ , Alana. It’s only a matter of time before--”

“-- I told you last night, I can take care of myself.” Alana didn’t look flattered by Margot’s worry, or confused by how sudden it seemed. She sounded almost _offended_ ; she looked like she’d had more than enough of being protected. “I would take being hurt because I did the right thing a thousand times over _not_ being hurt and having to live with the fact that I _didn’t_.”

Margot wasn’t sure any kind of response was fitting for this. Alana’s tone had been sharper than she’d heard it before, and it didn’t bode well with Margot that she was the one to evoke it.

“I’m going to get dressed and take the dogs out,” Alana announced, getting to her feet with a brief wince and an automatic gingery touch to her lower back as she straightened. She quickly replaced the expression of flashed pain with a tight smile. “You can have the shower first. Help yourself to anything you need.”

Margot wanted to ask if she was alright: if she’d taken whatever medication she was on this morning or if her presence had distracted her. She wanted to ask if she wanted her to be here when she got back with the dogs. She wanted to ask her if they could pretend the last half hour hadn’t happened.

But because Margot seemed to have said enough, she didn’t. She simply nodded and then watched Alana slip into the hall, a trail of dogs trotting along behind her. 

* * *

Since coming back to live with her, the most significant change Alana noted amongst the dogs was in Winston.

He didn’t run away anymore-- probably because even he knew Will wouldn’t be at home, but when they went for walks, and the others ran off ahead, he would hang back and walk alongside her. He wasn’t clingy per say, but he was certainly more attached to her than before, more interested in making sure she too didn’t disappear from sight than he was in chasing the others.

This morning was no different. If anything, he seemed even more insecure following the presence of Margot, despite the fact it was her second time staying over. Alana wondered how all the upheaval transpired in his little mind.

While Applesauce made a nuisance of herself in teasing the other dogs with a chew toy she’d smuggled on the walk when Alana hadn’t been looking, she scratched Winston’s ears and tried to reassure him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said gently, because by now she no longer felt crazy for talking to them: they were better listeners than any human in her life, for sure. She nodded towards the field ahead. “Go on. I’ll stay close.”

He whined at her feet, then rubbed his head against her legs. She tried a different tactic, picking up a stick and flinging it. He followed it with his eyes, whined harder and then proceeded to shake the melting snow from his paws. She held her breath, until one of the other dogs snatched the stick up and Winston turned back to her.

She almost laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” She scratched his head once more with a sigh and then whistled, as if he’d needed the direction, for him to follow her.

Rounding the pack back up took longer than the walk itself had. By the time she got back to the house, it was almost midday, and to say she was surprised Margot’s car was still parked in the driveway would be an understatement.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” she called, poking her head around the living room door as the dogs padded in past her and assumed their usual positions on her rug. Margot sat on the sofa, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her legs tucked beneath her. She glanced up at the sound of Alana’s voice.

“It’s alright.”

Alana hung her coat on the rack in the hall, kicking off her boots. Once in the room, she had to step over three different dogs to get to her sofa. She sat down, inches from Margot, and tried to remember where they’d left off.

“Earlier, you asked me if my feelings for you scared me.” Margot was staring at her, but Alana could tell by the flicker in her eyes it was only by intense effort. She wanted to look away, but she didn’t. That was progress in Alana’s book.

“I did.” _Did I?_ She’d said a lot of things earlier. Something like that could easily get lost among all the talk of murder.

“When things scare me I tend to get rid of them,” Margot explained evenly, and Alana imagined she was thinking of Mason. “Or, at least, I try to.”

“Okay,” Alana said slowly, waiting for Margot to continue. She knew what Margot was getting at: it was a defense mechanism to push away things that frightened her. She’d been the same way, back when real danger was foreign to her and she’d thought Will Graham’s smile would be her undoing.

“I don’t want to get rid of _you_ , though.” Margot looked down, at the black thread on the hem of her trousers she was tugging aimlessly. “So if I’m suspicious or protective it’s not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I don’t trust that someone like you could see something to care about in someone like _me_.”

Alana might have congratulated herself on finally piercing Margot’s facade, on having been awarded this shred of raw honesty that came in the form of a blatant lack of self-worth. If she’d been Margot’s psychiatrist, Alana would have felt like they were getting somewhere. As Margot’s.... _whatever she currently was_ , as someone who looked at Margot and saw enough to be able to ignore her warning signs, ignore her own advice, she felt like they’d taken a hundred steps back.

“Someone like you?” Alana wanted to laugh. “There isn’t _anyone_ like you. Not that I’ve ever met, anyway.”

This made Margot smile, just a little, but enough to be worth it. “You know what I mean. I conspire to kill my brother in my spare time; you take in a half a dozen stray dogs for a friend. I’m driven by money, by revenge, by power; you just want to do the right thing.” She looked up at Alana then, and her hand reached out to brush hair back from Alana’s face. “I push you away, and you pull me back.”

When Margot moved her hand away, Alana pointedly reached for her wrist, brought it back to her cheek, just to illustrate that last point. “Sounds like we compliment each other,” she said airily, and she waited until Margot laughed before she smiled herself.

Margot moved closer, and Alana was half lost in the kiss before the other woman's lips had even touched hers. Just as they were about to, they were interrupted by a low, angry growl. Margot backed away and Alana looked down to see Winston, paws on the edge of the sofa as he stuck his head between them and remained perfectly still with eyes trained on Margot.

Alana wasn’t entirely confident she’d even _heard_ Winston growl before: not even when she first brought Applesauce home and she trailed after him for three days straight because he was the friendliest of the pack; not when a fox appeared from a hole one night when they were walking, and most of the others lost their minds; not even when playing with the younger, snappier dogs.

Margot was laughing but Alana wasn’t. “Winston!” she commanded, more out of shock than anything, and he immediately dropped his paws back to the floor, eyes flicking back to her as his growl shifted to an apologetic whine instead.

“Even your _dogs_ want to protect you,” Margot said, no longer laughing but smiling faintly as she watched Winston’s attempt to disappear from Alana’s wrath, by shrinking into himself and burying his head behind his paws, with amusement. “It’s your fault, really. You and your wonderful taste in the worse kinds of people." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: kara-la9
> 
> special thanks to sweet Shea, for all the hours she spent listening to me argue both of the girls' points, before coming to the conclusion that it was necessary they both be a little bit wrong *and* a little bit right.
> 
> Also: Bless little Winston, still shipping Alana and Will. Tsk. Can't please everyone.


	11. maybe love is rocket science, after all

Their first date was spent in a restaurant of Margot’s choosing, drinking wine Alana ordered and watching the couple across the room toss passive-aggressive comments (that they couldn’t hear, of course) at each other over their steak tartare.

“I’m sure he cheated,” Margot observed as she topped up Alana’s glass, followed by her own.

“Oh, stop, you can’t tell that from here.” It was more likely that _she_ had, if the glares he’d been casting the poor waiter cosying up to her for a tip were any indication, but Alana kept this judgement to herself.

“Of course I can.” Margot took a sip of her wine, eyes catching in the candlelight. “He’s a man. They have a notoriously short attention span.”

“Not _all_ men. Anyway, how would you know?” She shut her eyes, cringing, and then opened them again to find Margot smirking. “I swear, it didn’t sound like that in my head.” 

“You really shouldn’t be mixing alcohol and your medication, should you?” Margot teased.

Alana set her glass down and shook her head. “Absolutely _not_.”

“There have been a few men,” Margot said, eyes fixed on the other side of the room.

“A few?” Alana asked. A few was three.

“A _couple_ ,” Margot clarified.

_Two._ Alana watched as the lone woman on the table to their left stirred her martini with her finger, a listless expression on her face, and wondered if she'd been stood up. “How does that stand, statistically?”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Is that your subtle way of asking how many people I’ve slept with?”

Alana shrugged. “Not _so_ subtle, evidently.”

“Evidently,” Margot agreed. She turned back to Alana. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just making conversation,” she lied. “You don’t _have_ to tell me.” The truth was, she didn’t know why she’d asked. It had just come out, and she didn’t even know if she could blame the alcohol this time, or the fact she’d spent most of the day examining her own sexual history in an effort to make herself believe she could handle one night with Margot.

She wasn’t _forcing_ it, but she wasn’t giving into a nonsensical fear, either. She might have been sensibly selective in the past, but she wasn’t a blushing virgin, for God’s sake. It didn’t make any _sense_.

Except now of course she’d given herself reason to be intimidated, and what if Margot said something like _ten_? That was the average number that women in their thirties said, or so she’d read. That would be six more women than Alana had even _kissed_.

The prospect had her taking a longer sip of her wine, with Margot eyeing her curiously.

“You first,” Margot said, and it took Alana’s mind a few precious seconds to catch up to what she really should have expected by now.

She thought about not answering: she’d offered Margot the right to refuse, and she didn’t think Margot would push her, either. There was no right answer when asked this, especially not for women of her age. Whatever number she said, she was sure to be judged automatically, even if Margot didn’t consciously do it.

Alana didn’t think she was the kind of person who dodged difficult questions, and after all she had been the one to ask it in the first place. Besides, her shame came from _who_ she’d slept with most recently, not how many people there had been before.

“Four,” she said, putting her glass back to rest on it’s coaster. “Three men. One girl-- in college.”

“Cliché,” Margot tsked, as her leg brushed with Alana’s under the table and her eyes sparkled.

“I’ve kissed another woman, too,” Alana said, wondering, as an afterthought, if that sounded as pathetic to Margot as it did to her.

Margot tilted her head. “You mean _me_?”

She gave in and laughed at this. It was impossibly to tell if Margot was really teasing though: of  _course_ she would think she meant her. “No. I mean _another_ woman.”

There was a brief lapse of silence while they examined the front page of their respective menus. Then, Margot glanced back to the couple, whose plates were being cleared away. “Don’t you think she looks _miserable_?”

She did, actually. “It’s difficult to tell. Maybe she's just having a bad day.”

Alana watched Margot eye the woman’s partner. “Or a bad life.”

Well, it was easy to see where this conversation was going. “How about your two men?” Alana asked, leaning forward in her chair, loving the way Margot’s skin looked in the restaurant lighting. “Where they in the beginning? When you were younger? Or…”

“Four,” Margot interrupted, glancing at the bottle of wine between them. Then, her gaze was on Alana, and there was something so predatory about it that Alana felt the hair on her arms rise, but it was mingled with the relief that her confession had brought. “ _Snap_.”

It seemed so silly now, but just a minute ago, it had mattered. “So two of each?”

Margot nodded. “I don’t like even numbers,” she said, flippantly, but Alana knew she was being anything but blasé.

She didn’t rise to Margot's flirtations: they hadn’t even _ordered_ yet. She tried, once again, to ground the conversation, “But you’re not bi?”

“I didn’t think you’d be one for labels,” Margot said with narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t say bisexual, no. I’m not attracted to men.”

Well, that answered Alana’s question about whether the two men had been before Margot came out or not. She supposed they'd been experiments. “Got it,” she said, taking another drink.

“Does talking about this make you nervous?” Margot nodded toward Alana’s glass, which was now only a quarter full. “I haven’t seen you drink that quickly before.” Her eyes flicked to Alana’s. “We can talk about something else, if you like.”

Alana wasn’t entirely convinced Margot was very comfortable with the topic either. Still, even if she _was_ projecting, she was also right.

Before Alana had to consider changing the conversation, a waiter interrupted them, ready to take their order. 

They were _both_ relieved. 

* * *

 

The couple across the room left separately, but they didn’t. They split the bill and called a taxi.

When it arrived, they got in, eager to be saved from the cold of the night and Alana was quick to give the driver _her_ address. She pretended to believe it when Margot sat closer than necessary to compliment her perfume; when it was her turn, she took Margot’s hand, admiring the nail polish, when really she was admiring how nice it felt-- how perfectly it fit inside her own.

When they pulled into her drive, Alana paid the driver. As they got out, she heard Margot asking him to wait. He said something about turning the meter off to take a break.

“You don’t have to do that,” Alana said, when they’d turned away from the car, cheeks starting to burn at the thought of Margot’s certainty she wouldn’t be inviting her in. She felt silly for being surprised:  _of course_ Margot would have considered it. “You can _stay_.”

They walked to the front door in silence. Before Alana could reach for the lock, Margot spun her around and kissed her.

One kiss led to another, and Alana was sure the taxi driver was thoroughly enjoying his break, and she was also _fully_ aware they should take this inside, but Margot’s lips had some sort of magnetic hold on her own: one she couldn’t drag herself away from.

It felt as easy as it had the first ten times they’d kissed, on that first night. It tasted better, because of the wine, and maybe they weren't quite so delicate with each other this time, but that didn’t stop the fire within her from roaring, setting her senses on fire. She pulled Margot closer, closer, _closer,_ thinking there was no such thing as being close _enough_ , and Margot followed her lead, because for all the things they were doing wrong, this was evidence enough that they'd gotten _something_ right.

It was too much and just enough and less than they needed, but it was wonderfully getting there: that is, until Margot’s hands came to rest on Alana’s hips, and Alana’s breath caught in her throat and her knees felt weak and suddenly Margot's body became a wall that was closing in on her.

To Margot’s credit, she didn’t need to be told to stop. She sensed Alana’s body stiffening and automatically dropped her hands again, stepping out of the kiss just as quickly. There was something in her eyes that made Alana want to scream out of pure frustration at herself until her throat was raw.

“I wasn’t going to…”

Alana reached for Margot’s hands, her own shaking, and then thought better of it. She was _confusing_ Margot, and it wasn't fair. She might have lost the heat of the moment but she hadn’t lost her need for something to hold onto, but that didn't make sense to someone you'd just pushed away. “I know. I _know_ . It’s not you. It’s--- it’s not _you_ . It’s-- God, I’m _sorry._ ” Her voice hitched as she spoke, and then she used her empty hands to hide her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

When she had counted back from ten three times, when she had her breath back, she looked down to find Margot sitting on one of her porch steps, eyes on her own. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Alana sat down beside her, hugging her knees, ignoring the sharp pain between her shoulder blades that travelled right down her spine. It was nothing on the embarrassment that had pierced the perfect bubble they'd been in just moments ago. “I can’t explain it. And I know what this looks like.”

“Do you?” Margot shifted, only a fraction of an inch away, but it had been deliberate-- so their shoulders wouldn’t touch. Alana shut her eyes and wished, not for the first time this year, that she could disappear.

“It looks like I don’t want to sleep with you. It looks like I’m afraid to be with a woman.” She glanced behind her, to the door, where she could now hear barking and whining. She kept her eyes there so she wouldn’t have to look at Margot.

“Do you not?” Margot turned to her, eyes focused intently. “ _Are_ you?”

Fifteen minutes before, the answer to both of those would have been a straight out no. She _wanted_ Margot, and she _wanted_ to want her. So why did every instinct in her body reject anything more than a kiss?

“I don’t know.” Alana looked back out over the yard, the drive, where the cab sat with no lights on. In the dark, she couldn’t quite make out if the driver was watching them or not. She didn't have the energy to argue: not tonight. “I don’t _know_.”

Margot was silent for what was probably only seconds, but what felt like the longest minutes of Alana’s life-- other than those she’d spent bleeding on the pavement in the rain wondering if Jack and Will and Abigail were alive.

Then, Margot was holding out her hand. Alana took it with relief, and smiled weakly as Margot linked their fingers together and shifted closer, thinking that of the two of them, it was entirely possible she was the more unstable. At least Margot was _consistent._

“Did he force you?” Margot asked, so quiet Alana almost thought she’d imagined it. She would have assumed she had, if Margot hadn’t chosen that exact moment to squeeze her hand. "Hannibal. Did he force you?"

Alana’s eyes filled with fresh tears. God, was it so bad Margot assumed _that_? To her, Hannibal was a hero. For her to jump to that kind of conclusion, Alana must have made a greater mess of things than she'd first thought.

“No. _No_ , he didn’t.” Her words felt too full to be spoken without her voice breaking under their weight. She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I practically _threw_ myself at him.”

“That doesn’t mean you wanted it,” Margot said firmly. Alana turned to rest her head on Margot’s shoulder and sniffed.

“It wasn’t like that, though. I did want it. I wanted _him_.” She rubbed Margot’s fingers with her thumb, tracing the patterns of her knuckles while she tried to string together an explanation she didn’t have. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just, I close my eyes and I _know_ it’s you but I...I feel _his_ hands, and _his_ lips and I know it’s not the same but... I just think about where his hands were, before and after. How many people did he kill with those hands? How many people passed those lips?” Saying it aloud made it sound even more ridiculous than it felt. She squeezed her eyes shut. “God, what do I sound like?”

“A walking advertisement for isolation,” Margot admitted, and it took Alana a second to realize it was a joke, but when she did, she nudged Margot’s ribs and mustered a pout. Softer, Margot added, “Good thing I’m not buying.”

When the silence blossomed, Alana felt tears stinging in her eyes once more. They weren’t the angry waterfall from earlier or those born from laughter. They were lukewarm with regret, refusing to fall. With her head still on Margot’s shoulder, blushed cheeks being tickled by loose strands of her hair, Alana took in the sight of their fingers entangled together and squeezed the other woman’s hand. “This is a mess,” she said softly. “What are we doing, Margot?”

“It’s _messy_ ,” Margot corrected, indignant as ever. “It’s not a mess. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure we’ll get there.”

“Hmm, maybe. If me and my dogs don’t scare you away first.”

“If you can handle my brother, I think I can handle your Hannibal Lecter complex.” Margot’s head fell against Alana’s, and it sent a shiver up her spine, but in a nice way. It was a mark of intimacy that she hadn't shared before, something Hannibal hadn’t done: something that hadn't been tainted. “Anyway, I don’t have much choice beyond drugging you and dragging you into my parlour, do I?”

“Is that Verger-speak for ‘take all the time you need, ready when you are…’ etcetera?”

She couldn’t see Margot’s smile, but she knew it would be there. Small, but sincere. “We Verger’s aren’t exactly known for their patience.”

“Then it’s a good thing I bagged the exception, isn’t it?” Alana might have been irresponsible with herself before, but she knew her limits now. One thing she wasn’t was self-destructive, and sleeping with someone else before she was ready was sure to fall under that category. If she were her own patient, she would suggest time. _You need to feel more comfortable with Margot,_ she would tell herself. It wasn’t the kind of thing she could rush or fake.

“I should go,” Margot said, only moving enough to straighten up and lift her head. She motioned toward the taxi. “He’ll be getting impatient.”

“Are you sure?” She watched as Margot got to her feet, letting go of her hand to stand and then reaching for it again to help her up. “You _can_ stay, you know.”

“I know, but I should go home. I need to get up early with the horses.” She took a step back, hesitantly, and then another two forward. When her lips fell on Alana’s cheek, she turned her head so they brushed with her lips for just a second before Margot pulled away. “Goodnight, Alana.”

Alana gave her a tiny, parting smile. “Goodnight, Margot.” She stood at the door and watched as Margot got into the backseat of the taxi and the engine roared to life, reversing out of her driveway. She couldn’t see, but she would have bet Margot didn’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: kara-la9 
> 
> I don't expect you'll have to wait very long on the next chapter, it's in the works-- Give me a few days.


	12. you should be free, until then borrow me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the length of this chapter...I didn't have the heart to split it, and believe it or not this is actually the shorter version. Heh, sorry again. Also, just a warning, things get smutty around the middle, so maybe review the tags before reading if that doesn't sound like your kind of thing. 
> 
> Once again, your support means the world to me. Thank you for reading.

Alana should have known the Verger’s would have their own library: a hallmark of prestige and a repressive tool all at once. If Margot and Mason been provided with an abundance of books, outside education lost it’s appeal: another way of controlling how they saw the world.

She watched from the doorway as Margot took books from the shelves and tossed them onto the floor, wincing as they slammed on top of each other, spines bending, pages crumpling. “Are you sure about this?”

“What’s the point of having a room designated to books that haven’t been touched in _years_ ?” Margot glanced over her shoulder as another book fell. “Mason doesn’t even _like_ reading and he only uses this room when he’s sulking or pretending to be our father.”

Alana stepped over a pile of biographies, the blood red cover of the first catching her eye, capitalized lettering reading ‘Jack The Ripper.’ Moving it aside with her foot, she counted another four similar books about the infamous killer, none of them particularly accredited in her opinion. When Margot caught her eye, she gave a small, indifferent shrug.

“Mason went through a phase,” she said simply, and Alana decided against suggesting that that just may have been a slight indication of his future behaviour.

“How about you?” Alana looked around, guessing at least a hundred shelves, approximately ten books in each. “Some of them must be yours?”

“My father didn’t see my education as necessary as Mason’s.” Margot dropped another, following it with her eyes until it too crashed to the floor. “Most of them are incredibly transparent, anyway. Repulsive male authors with shockingly resilient egos and violent views of women with very little of note to say and too many pages to say it.”

“Charming.” Alana didn’t have a library to cite, but she had read enough thesis’ from male colleagues in her time to know this probably wasn’t much of an exaggeration on Margot’s part. “Don’t you think getting rid of his books will cause friction with Mason?”

“That’s exactly what I think.” Margot shot her a ‘ _what are you going to do?’_ look. “It’s my house too. Didn’t you tell me to show him more of me?”

“I hoped you’d do it in a way that wouldn’t provoke further aggression.” Actually, she’d hoped Margot would have slept on it and decided going to the police was a better decision after all, but logically, she knew that had been too optimistic of her.

“Don’t worry,” Margot said, as though Alana were being ridiculous even suggesting she might be putting herself in further danger. “His men left a few days ago. He’s too busy pandering to his new physician to pay attention to me.”

“ _Left_?” It was the first time Margot had mentioned it, but then Alana hadn’t seen her since that disastrous night on her porch steps. “Where did they go?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Have they gone for good?” It seemed a little too spontaneous for Alana’s liking, a little too convenient. She didn’t know if it was Mason’s way of luring his sister back home again now that she’d started to inch away.

“It seems that way, but then it did last time, too.” The next book she picked up was flicked through for a few seconds before being similarly abandoned. “I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.”

“Then you should stay with me tonight.” Not exactly how she’d intended to ask-- and after all, Margot should know by now it was an open invitation-- but a relief to have it overwith nonetheless. She’d been thinking a lot about what Margot saw as her ‘sexual complexes.’ Or, rather, she’d been trying not to think about it at all.

She knew the problem was deep-rooted somewhere in her subconscious, somewhere she couldn’t get to, and obsessing over it would only bury it deeper. At the same time, she couldn’t hide away from physical intimacy without rejecting Margot and simultaneously shattering any trust she’d built, and it might have been far from an ideal situation, it also meant she didn’t have an excuse to isolate herself.

“If you insist,” Margot said, turning back to the books. Her lack of confidence in Alana was more obvious than Alana thought tactful, but then she didn’t think tact was Margot’s strong suit. “Shouldn’t you check with your dogs, first?”

Alana gave into a smirk. “Winston and I had a very long talk.”

Margot was analyzing a page of a book she’d picked up at random, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, but Alana could tell she was fighting back a smile. “That’s a start.”

“Hmm. It is.” At this point, it became clear to Alana that stealing Margot away mid-clear-out was going to be more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. She slipped out of her coat, throwing it over the chair of the dust-covered mahogany desk by the window. “So this new doctor of Mason’s. I take it he was the one to let me in?”

A tall, lean man in a suit with small, bloodshot eyes and a quiet voice. He’d asked her what her business was, and it had been so inherent in her to pull out her credentials at times like this that she got as far as opening her purse before she realized she wasn’t here for the FBI, and she was no longer anyone’s psychiatrist-- not even Margot’s.

She hadn’t known what to say then, because as far as she knew, he was just another of Mason’s goons in a fancy suit. Thankfully, she hadn’t needed to say anything, because Margot had stepped into the doorway in that exact moment and saved her.

He’d disappeared from sight after that, and Margot had led her into the library, offering her a drink they both knew she wasn’t going to take.

“Yes. Doemling, I think his name is. He won’t last long, I imagine. Too weak-stomached for Mason’s liking.” Alana couldn’t help but wonder if Margot had made a similar kind of assumption about her after their first few meetings. She wanted to ask, but she didn’t think she’d be very content with Margot’s answer.

“What’s he like?” She said instead, walking over to where Margot stood in the centre of the room. “This Dr. Doemling?”

“Reluctant to get his hands dirty,” Margot said, moving both of her hands swiftly so as to drop yet another book. “Can’t blame him, really. I think it’s fair to assume he’s never had a patient like Mason before.”

“No, I don’t suppose he has.” She looked back to the mess on the floor. “What will you do with them?”

“Burn them. Unless you’re after some light reading, of course.”

Alana didn’t know if Margot was joking or not. “I’ll pass, thanks.” On the shelf Margot had just cleared, one book remained. Alana picked it up. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Is this yours?”

When she looked up, Margot’s eyes were narrowed, dark, _hard_. “Not quite. It belonged to the school library.”

Alana flipped to the first page to see the traditional library slip, along with a stamp along the bottom that proclaimed it ‘Property ofSaint Francis Elementary, Maryland, Baltimore.’

Alana blinked at her. “You stole this from your school library?”

“Borrowed,” Margot corrected, but with little force. “I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.”

“With this story?”

“With fairytales in general.”

“I’m not sure I’d call this a fairytale. A fantasy, sure, but it’s too classical to be reduced to a child’s bedtime story.” Alana looked up to find Margot staring out the window, eyes fixed on something in the distance that she didn’t see. “Did you like it?”

“I didn’t read it, in the end.” Margot didn’t move but to speak, and Alana set the book aside to come around the desk and stand beside her. “My father found it and confiscated it.”

It didn’t surprise her. Mason had to have gotten his cruelty from somewhere. Alana rested against the desk, arms folded. “He still kept it.”

Margot’s head snapped toward her so quickly Alana was sure she must have hurt her neck. “Which suggests what to you, exactly?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he just forgot he had it. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe, someday, he was going to give it back.”

“And there you go again, seeing the good in someone you’ve never even met, whilst retaining the insistence that Dr. Lecter is irredeemable.” Margot turned back to the window, face against the glass.

Alana sat up a little straighter. “Let’s not talk about Hannibal, please.” A moment passed. “I got a call from the FBI last night.”

This seemed to grasp Margot’s attention. “Have they found him?”

Alana resisted the urge to laugh out loud. “Have the FBI found Hannibal? You’re kidding, right? They aren’t even _looking._ ” She looked down at her shoes, kicking them off. “No. It was about me, actually. They want me to come in. Something about outstanding paperwork and an official ‘discussion’ about my actions.”

“ _Your_ actions?” Margot moved closer, so she was standing at Alana’s legs, eyes on her face. “Meaning?”

“I imagine it’s a long-list of nothing that I won’t be given the opportunity to argue.” She forced a smile. “I would be angry if I hadn’t been expecting it for a while now. They were waiting for the media frenzy to die out before making things final. It’s been one long stay out of execution.”

“What do they have on you?” Margot tilted her head. “That you went to his house that night?”

“That I went to his house that night, armed, against previous orders.” Although in fairness to her, she wasn’t technically _supposed_ to take orders from Kade Purnell. “That I recommended Hannibal to Jack, putting them on his radar. That I was involved with him despite the active investigation into his involvement in the Ripper murders.”

“The active investigation _you_ weren’t aware of?” Margot rolled her eyes. “They must have more than that. And haven’t they suspected four different men as the ripper over the last three years? Is it any _wonder_ you didn’t listen?”

Once, Alana might have felt everything inside her unclench and unfold at Margot’s words. An outpouring of relief may have filled her lungs to the point where she couldn’t breathe because _it finally made sense to someone else._ Her concerns about the FBI had been as legitimate a year ago as they were now, if she had needed the confirmation.

But she knew the difference between reassurance and defense. Margot had crossed a line, the one distinguishing her feelings from her sense of judgement. It happened in most relationships, that point when you looked to the person next to you and decided you belonged on their side, whatever the battle. It was the same reason she had jumped to conclusions about Alana’s sexual hesitance, her well-meaning, “ _did he force you_?” because, to her, there was nothing Alana could have done to deserve the way she currently felt; because, from now on, it would almost always be the fault of someone else. Once you fell for someone, the way you saw them became blurred.

It was a line Alana was actively avoiding, because crossing it would mean re-evaluating her stance on Margot’s issues with her brother. Right now, things were personal between them, but she was maintaining a professional view of Margot’s desire to kill. If she handled Margot like an unstable patient, she couldn’t get herself tangled up in another mess of murder and lies. Sympathising with Margot was natural and normal and healthy, _empathizing_ with her could mean losing control of her own morals.

Alana could have confessed to almost anything and Margot would have come down on her side, blamed the FBI, offered her support. It was normal, in most relationships, but in most relationships one of the parties was not constantly oscillating between murder and financial corruption.

“There are a lot of things I didn’t want to listen to.” Alana smiled wearily. “I don’t have an awful lot of room to argue anyway, considering how much of what they’re saying is true.”

“There’s always room for arguing when they’re wrong,” Margot said with a frown. “It’s not a losing battle until you’ve decided that you’ve lost.”

Alana wished she was as good a fighter as Margot wanted her to be. Standing up abruptly closed the space between them, and Alana didn’t give Margot very much time to process before she was kissing her with deliberately slowness, a gentle tongue, soft lips.

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” she said, pausing to draw Margot closer to her, hands touching her cheeks, and it wasn’t a lie. It might not have been gratifying from a career standpoint, but from a personal standpoint, it felt inexplicably _nice_ to have someone defend her more fiercely than she had, to date, even defended herself.

She told herself she shouldn’t feel hurt when Margot stepped out of the kiss and announced the next thing she intended to clear out was the desk. Margot was apprehensive about passion, because the last time she’d given into it, Alana had literally pushed her away: it made sense, it was to be expected.

It was fairly clear that with Margot, _she_ was the one who did the pushing. She wasn’t used to getting the shove first, and, as such, she had no idea how to deal going forward.

So Alana sat back and watched Margot go through each drawer, one by one, emptying the contents and making scathing comments before proceeded to she throw most of them away.

Until she came to a black, cedar box, the same ridiculous crest on the front door knocker engraved on the lid. Flipping it, Margot smirked. “Cigars.”

“Mason smokes?”

“Only to feel like Papa.” It was the first time Alana had heard Margot refer to her father as that, and it was probably only because the sight of the cigars brought her back to her childhood: for one brief second, she’d lost of her grip on the time and place. She didn’t even seem to have noticed she said it, her eyes never once flicking from the box. “We should smoke them.”

“Do you smoke?” It seemed like such a minute detail in the grand scheme of things, but it had Alana wondering how much they actually knew about each other. They might have had their respective traumas analyzed, but as _people,_ had they even scratched the surface?

“Not religiously.” Still, Alana watched as Margot opened the zip-lock bag where the three cigars were stored. “Want one?”

She’d smoked half a joint once, at a High School party Andrew had dragged her to just so he could flirt with one of her friends. It was perhaps the most uncharacteristic moment of her teenage years, and was so unlike her that her brother even told their parents, who had been too busy laughing to yell at her for her momentary lapse in judgement.

“I’ve never…” Margot didn’t seem surprised by this in the slightest, which almost spurred Alana to take the bag from her and slip one out. Christ, was she really sucumming to peer pressure? At her age? “Just one. I’ll _try_ one.”

She watched as Margot took a small, rounded blade out of the cedar box, chopping the top off the cigar. Then, she handed it to Alana and turned back to the desk drawer, digging around for a lighter. When she’d retrieved it, she smirked and readjusted the way Alana was holding the cigar before lighting it and motioning for Alana to turn it in her fingers as the flame danced in front of their eyes.

As Alana was about to bring it to her lips, Margot’s hand on her own caused her to pause. “Don’t inhale,” she warned.

It was easier said than done when, instinctively, Alana’s body was suggesting she do exactly that. It felt heavy rested on her lips, and she was drawing in the taste of smoke before her brain had even decided where it was going to go.

When she broke into coughing, a horrible taste in the back of her throat, the smoke still tickling there even after she’d moved the cigar away, nostrils burning, Margot’s hand was on her arm. She only just registered Margot taking the cigar from her fingers as they fisted her blouse, her reflexes reaching for the other woman as her eyes began to sting and her cheeks burned from coughing so hard. “I literally _just_ told you,” Margot said, and once Alana realized she was laughing her eyes stung even harder and the coughing only worsened because _fuck, Margot please don’t make me laugh when I’m trying not to choke._

She couldn’t say that, of course, so she settled for clutching Margot’s blouse even tighter. If she was really lucky, she might rip it. Not that Margot would even have taken even a moment away from laughing to be annoyed, of course.

“Okay, don’t die on me,” sobering a little (with eyes still glassy from laughing so hard) Margot’s hand that wasn’t holding the cigar came up to rub her back: too soothing to be of any real help, but Alana supposed she was probably wary of her existing problems. “At least we have a doctor upstairs.”

“Water,” Alana managed to croak, and Margot shook her head.

“It won’t help. Just relax.” She kept her hand where it was, rubbing circles up and down Alana’s back, and eventually the coughing subsided enough to where Alana could laugh without the danger of swallowing her tongue.

“That was horrific,” she announced, wiping her eyes.

Margot shook her head, but didn’t move her hand. “I _told_ you not to inhale.”

“I panicked!” She coughed again, and then eyed the cigar wearily. “Do I get a second attempt?”  

“I don’t know, can you use your tongue to block your throat so you don’t inhale, or is it only good for kissing and talking?”

“You are such a _monster_ ,” Alana sighed, taking the cigar from Margot’s fingers and earning a skeptical look. “I think I can handle it.” She gave a slightly sheepish smile. “This time.”

Margot responded with an eye roll. Her hand dropped, but she didn’t move away. “Slowly,” she instructed.

This time, Alana lowered her jaw to give way to the smoke, and while her immediate instinct was to gag, she didn’t. Removing the cigar from her lips, she held her breath for a few seconds, and then released it.

Margot raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

“Definitely.” Alana held it out for her to take. “Your turn.”

Margot did almost the same thing Alana just had, but the difference was Margot looked completely at ease doing it. Even better, she managed to make it look unjustly sexy and classy and everything Alana _hadn’t._ It was amazing how the six inch death trap could change so dramatically as to turn her on, just by one puff on Margot’s part.

When Margot held it out to her again, she was reluctant to take it. She wanted Margot to smoke it herself, simply so she could have the pleasure of watching her exhale the smoke again. She would have suggested she smoke the next two as well, if it weren’t likely terribly bad for her health.

“Try again,” Margot prompted, and the glint in her eyes had Alana thinking that maybe she could still redeem herself.

It still caused a small cough, but certainly nothing as dramatic as before, and this time, she tasted something more than just smoke. It was strong, but not overpowering; smooth but effective. Her lips tingled from the inside.

When she blew out again, it was the smell that got her. Indescribable, potent, intoxicating.

“See? I told you to relax.” Margot took the cigar from her and rolled it between her fingers.

She glanced down at the other two cigars. “I still vote we throw them away.”

Margot nodded. “Fair enough. I think I’d gain more pleasure smoking them in _front_ of Mason.” She brought it back to her lips, the muscles in her cheek ticking as she aligned her jaw, and Alana’s toes curled. She caught Margot eyeing her sideways, and that was when she realized Margot knew _exactly_ what she was doing, _and_ it’s effect.

“You tease,” Alana muttered, cheeks reddening. Margot smirked and exhaled.

“You love it.” She did, actually. She took the cigar from Margot’s fingers, and this time as she drew in the smoke, Margot’s heated eyes were fixed on her completely. She took full advantage of this, holding her breath for seconds longer than before, and then letting it out and licking her lips.

They took it in turns to tease each other long after the tobacco taste had subsided. At one point, it stopped being about the cigar and became a test of wills instead: a challenge as to who would be the one to give in first.

Not much of a challenge, because previous behaviour had rendered Alana responsible for instigating intimacy. She followed Margot into the kitchen, where she dumped the cigar, and then she let her pour her a glass of bourbon she didn’t intend to drink.

In the parlour, Margot lit the fire, and as it roared to life, Alana revelled at the sight of Margot outlined by the orange light of the flames. They wound up on the floor, backs against the sofa.

“What will you do with the library?” It wasn’t a surprise when Margot shrugged. Alana was quickly learning that for all her intelligence and caution, Margot acted first, and thought second.

“I don’t know.” She looked to Alana. “You don’t need an office, do you?”

“For my many patients?” Alana shook her head. “No. But thanks.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Her head fell to Margot’s shoulder. “I don’t doubt _you_.”

“Don’t you?” Margot picked up a glass, but didn’t drink from it. “I feel like you’re waiting for me to do something you don’t approve of.”

“That’s probably because you keep referring to things you know I don’t approve of.” She didn’t move her head: instead, she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of Margot’s breathing calm the anxiety bubbling inside her. “If you say I can trust you, then I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Margot didn’t sound angry, probably because she felt so similarly. “Not in the way you want to.”

“I trust you just enough,” Alana argued softly. “I trust that you won’t intentionally hurt me. I trust that you will make decisions for yourself based on the long-term and not short-term rewards. I trust that, whatever happens, you will be alright, because you have been getting through things long before me.”

“Is that really what you believe? Or what you _hope_?”

“I think they’re fairly firm predictions born from wishful thinking.” She smiled. “Why? Am I wrong? Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust you?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Alana nodded against Margot’s shoulder, long past being amazed with how flippantly they discussed her desire to kill her brother. “It’s difficult. How do you characterize distrust? A lie?”

The knotting in her stomach was tightening. She opened her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Is not sharing something the same as lying?” There was something in Margot’s voice that told Alana this wasn’t as serious as it seemed. More likely, Margot was testing her boundaries again.

“Not necessarily. Everyone’s entitled to their secrets, within reason.”

“Within reason?”

She yawned against Margot’s neck, smiling when she felt faint hair rise there. “I don’t know, Margot. Murdering countless people and feeding them to me at dinner parties: bad secret. Omitting something that it hurts to talk about and isn’t of vital importance but you have discussed and are dealing with with your psychiatrist: understandable.” She lifted her head, finally, to meet Margot’s eyes, which were clouded by something she couldn’t read. “I want you to feel like you can tell me anything, but if you don’t, or you’d just rather not, then that’s okay too. Everybody has things they would rather keep to themselves.”

Margot didn’t say anything, staring at the fire, the flames dancing as the wood cracked. Alana tapped her cheek. “I mean it. If you want to talk, I’m here. If you don’t, then I’m _still_ here.”

Margot answered this how she usually answered things that she hadn’t heard anyone before Alana say: by kissing her. They both tasted like the cigar and little else, and it was even less appealing a half hour after the fact, but Alana deepened the kiss anyway. When Margot broke away, Alana waited just long enough to register the way the other woman’s eyes flicked from her own eyes to her lips and back again before closing the space between them once more.

“Alana,” Margot said softly, moving her head after just one torturous brush of lips. “Tell me when to stop.”

She wanted to look Margot straight in the eyes and say “ _don’t stop,”_ wanted to whisper it between kisses and touches until Margot believed her, until they both forgot there had ever been a time when stopping had ever been a concern. The problem was, she couldn’t guarantee she would feel quite so certain after a few moments; the problem was, she couldn’t tell Margot not to stop because the second she did might be the second she wanted her to, and that wasn’t fair on either of them.

Instead, she nodded, biting her lip as she leaned in to kiss Margot’s neck, evoking a soft noise that she suspected came from surprise. Pulling back, she unbuttoned her blouse clumsily before taking Margot’s hands in her own and having them slip it over her head. For a moment, Margot just stared at her, probably taking in the sight of her in a lace bra that, in hindsight, wasn’t her best but wasn’t her worst, either.

Alana sat back on her heels as Margot turned her attention to her own shirt, silk cream with a black collar. She made a point of unbuttoning slowly while Alana resisted the urge to do it for her, eventually giving in to temptation and sliding it from her shoulders once the final button was free.

As her fingers brushed Margot’s shoulders, she felt the telltale raising of scarred skin beneath her bra strap, the bumps beneath the surface. Margot took her shirt from Alana and turned to toss it over the sofa, deliberately exposing an upper back of burns and scars.

“Mason,” she said simply, like she was so used to the question that it didn’t bear asking. Alana hadn’t thought to be self-conscious of her own scars, but yet she found herself turning similarly, exposing the trail of fused skin from her surgeries. Margot’s lips on her shoulder had her leaning back, leaning into her, as they worked their way up her neck to her jawline.

She loved lying against Margot, feeling the warmth of Margot breasts against her scars as Margot undid her bra. She loved Margot’s arms, loose around her waist, a hold that wasn’t anywhere near as possessive as it was protective. She loved Margot’s breath against her neck and the feel of her teeth and lips as they nipped at her earlobe.

She turned, surprising Margot as she ducked her head to meet the other woman’s lips, her movement causing Margot’s breasts to fall between them and everything inside Alana was brimming, bubbling, _tingling._

Margot took hints quite well: a small push against her bare shoulders had her shifting to a position where lying down was comfortable, pulling them closer to the fire, as if they had needed any more heat between them. The reflection of the flames in Margot’s eyes sent a thrilling shiver through Alana as she slipped her jeans over her hips.

Margot’s trousers were lost somewhere between the next kiss and Alana climbing on top of her. She 

She didn’t know how Margot had managed it without her noticing, but then her hands were cupping Margot’s breasts and she had Margot on her lips and it didn’t matter about silly little things like trousers because this... it was just so lovely.

She moved Margot’s hands to her hips, breath hitching as she did so. A look passed across Margot’s face, but Alana silenced her before she could ask if she was okay, with a succession of feathery kisses that were designed to be reassuring, all while her heart pounded in her chest.

She took her bra off because she knew Margot wouldn’t, leaning down once again to suck at a spot on Margot’s neck, as if she hadn’t planned for their nipples to touch, smiling against wet skin as Margot let out a little moan.

The heat of the fire on Margot’s arms was almost tickling as she worked her way down her body with kisses and nips. Margot was pressing herself up, slipping out of her underwear, and then Alana was moving up Margot’s legs, kissing and licking and one tiny bite to Margot’s inner thigh had the other woman’s nails digging into her shoulders.

She glanced up, just to make sure Margot was frustrated for all the right reasons and to check she was alright. Margot’s eyes weren’t shut, like Alana expected. Her pupils were wide and wild and watching; she was biting her lip, just enough to have drawn a drop of blood; hair loose and damp at the scalp and her neck was flushed from the combination of earlier marking and arousal and Alana’s mind short-circuited to anything beyond my God she is just beautiful.

“What’s wrong?” Margot asked, half groaning and Alana imagined she probably thought she was backtracking, and at the worst possible time. She couldn’t be further from the truth.   
  
“Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, choking out a strangled laugh. “My God, nothing.” Which wasn’t a lie, because not a single thing mattered to Alana more in that moment than making Margot cry out her name.

Margot looked unapologetically impatient. “So?”

“You Verger’s really aren’t very good with patience, are you?” she teased, but she quickly soothed her ruining of the moment by trailing her fingers along Margot’s swollen labia, kissing her clit as Margot moaned and arched underneath her.

She stroked her, tongue darting out for one daring lick that earned her a fist in her hair.

“Fuck, Alana,” Margot said, choking on the vowels in her name, and she’d never heard her name spoken so passionately, part growl, part cry but comprehensively one of the best sounds she’d ever heard.   

Alana lifted her head and licked her lips, the space between her own legs impossibly wet and warm, as she strained her neck to watch Margot orgasm tremble and moan, one hand still in Alana’s hair while the other was digging its fingernails into the back of her neck.

It only took a matter of seconds, Margot throwing her head back as her muscles contracted and her breathing quickened and hitched to the rhythm of Alana’s name.

Alana wasted no time slipping off Margot-- the muscles in her back beginning to feel the strain of being arched for so long--  and she sank down beside her, back to the fire as she threaded her fingers through Margot’s hair and kissed the side of her face soothingly.

“Your turn?” Margot’s eyes shone with uncertainty, and Alana couldn’t deny the heat that had her body iching with frustration, couldn’t deny that the thought of being fingered by Margot didn’t have her biting her lip, toes scrunched, goosebumps on every inch of flushed skin.

“Next time,” she said, not because there was even a fraction of her mind or body that didn’t feel safe, but because she knew she’d crossed enough boundaries for one night.

She’d gained enough pleasure from watching Margot, from evoking that kind of reaction from someone who had been so meticulous in retaining her composure until now, from having Margot Verger look at her like she was the most powerful woman in the world. There were some feelings even an orgasm couldn’t trump.

Margot frowned. “I thought you--”

“-- stop,” Alana commanded, smiling, dry fingers touching Margot’s lips. “I’m fine. I’m fine and you’re fine and we’ll be fine.”

“But you don’t want to--?”

“-- it’s not because of that.” She shifted closer, so their foreheads were touching. “I’d just...I’d rather we lay here for a while.”

Margot didn’t object. She sat up just enough to yank a throw from the sofa from them to curl up under, which they promptly did. After a few moments of lying with limbs entangled, Alana turned toward the fire to watch the flames flicker and climb, while Margot’s fingertips coasted up and down the middle of her back, skimming over her scars like she didn’t feel them, jarring under her skin; like she didn’t see them in the near-darkness; like they were just another freckle or line on Alana’s body that she found worthy of note only because it was a part of _her_.

 _We’ll be fine; we’ll be fine; we’ll be fine_ : the three words rang in her mind like a church bell. _We’ll be fine_ , she’d said, and now she only had to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Don't worry, I won't be writing an abundance of smut (I will spare you that) but this was just waiting to happen, really.


	13. we are more than the sum of our parts

Margot woke up to Alana’s hair tickling her breasts as she yawned against her stomach.

“Morning,” she managed, eyes adjusting to the brightness, shivering as she shook the sleep from her mind and took in the coolness of the morning.

“Morning,” Alana returned, a smile in her voice that Margot didn’t need to see to recognize: small, mischievous, bashful. “What time is it?”

Margot threw her head back, wincing at the sunlight burning its way through the blinds. “Early, I imagine.”

The fire had burnt out, but then they’d almost watched that happen, bodies too closely intertwined and comfortable to do anything about it. “I didn’t walk the dogs last night,” Alana murmured. “Fuck.”

“Well, they’ll definitely hate me now.”

“It’s not funny. Every time I leave the house they look at me like they don’t think I’m coming back.” Alana turned her head, chin pressing against Margot’s ribs. “It’s my own fault-- I spent so much time with them after Will left. I feel awful.”

“Dogs are resilient, aren’t they?” It felt ridiculous, to be humouring Alana like this, but it was also automatic now. Strange how the urge to comfort had come to her so instinctively all of a sudden.

“Not always,” Alana argued, very seriously. “Every dog is different. They’re like people.”

“Is your pillow talk aways this enlightening or are you especially forthcoming because you're trying to break the ice?”

Alana feigned thought. “I’d get it used to it if I were you,” she said, after a pause, smirking as Margot rolled her eyes.

When Alana rested her head back on her stomach, Margot felt herself wanting to roll away, although she knew that wasn’t an option. Alana seeing her scar had always been unavoidable: the questions, however, Margot could manage.

“You’re probably wondering what happened.” She didn’t elaborate, because she knew Alana wouldn’t pretend not to understand. The ones on her back had been easy: knife wounds, burns. No explanation required. This was surgical in nature, and had yet to fade as much as Margot would have liked.

Alana lifted her head. “I told you before. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“But you’re curious?”

Alana’s eyes sparkled. “I’m in a constant state of curiosity about you, Margot.”

Margot could relate. It felt like learning, like Alana was a foreign language, with a hundred words and phrases that Margot would never know, but just as many that she could decipher and memorize. She knew enough to be able to write a hundred pages and still run out of paper, but speaking those words, her feelings, out loud was something she had yet to master.

She sat up, gathering the throw they’d been wrapped in for most of the night and draping it around their shoulders as they shifted together, still naked, Alana shivering against her. 

“The only way I could kill my brother without losing everything was by providing a male heir. It was easy, once I had my mind set on what I wanted. One night was all it took.” As Alana’s eyes widened, Margot felt her own dull. “What I didn’t consider was that my brother might guess my intentions; that he would implement his own plan.”

Alana’s eyes fell to the scar. “Your... _brother_?”

Margot nodded. “I left that night. Packed my things and drove, without any real idea of where I was going. I should have been expecting him to send his men after me. I shouldn’t have been surprised when they tried to run me off the road.”

A part of her wanted to point out that leaving was a simple suggestion for Alana to make when arguing about what was healthy for her, but in practice, it was not so achievable. Never mind the fact she would be alone and penniless, how far would she even get before Mason had someone drag her back?

“What happened?” Alana shifted closer. “Margot?”

“I woke up, in an operating theatre, with Mason standing over me in scrubs. I couldn’t move. He made sure I knew what he was going to do before they made the first cut, and then they took everything.” Not everything, literally, but sometimes it felt like that. Sometimes, she felt hollow inside, empty: barren in every sense of the word. It was like she had nothing left and her body was simply existing. 

Alana didn’t ask her to explain which parts exactly they took; she didn’t mention the terms ‘baby’ or ‘fetus’ or ‘embryo.’ She didn’t ask what happened next, or if Margot had been awake throughout the whole thing or if Mason had been present. She didn’t scold Margot for her reasoning in conceiving the child, or for not having a concrete enough plan. She didn’t ask about the father.

Instead, she turned to wrap her arms around Margot’s waist, pressed so close against her that Margot could feel their hearts beating together as Alana's arms moved up her back: a strong, steady embrace that was foreign to Margot and homely at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” she said fiercely, and Margot buried her face in Alana’s hair, Alana’s shoulder, because that way, she wasn’t expected to speak. “Oh, Margot, I’m so sorry.”

It didn’t bring tears to Margot’s eyes anymore, but that wasn’t to say remembering did not sting. She felt a gut-wrenching prick piercing each of her remaining organs, her body tender and her mind numb, as though the anesthetic was wearing off all over again, leaving her lethargic and defeated.  

“You know that nothing you did meant that you deserved that, don’t you?” Alana rested their foreheads together, holding eye contact. “I don’t care what Mason said to you. I don’t care what you’ve said to yourself every day since. There is not a thing you could have done that would have rendered that just in any sense of the word.”

Margot wasn’t the type to blame herself-- her brother did quite enough of that for both of them, after all. The moral part of her mind had not been wholly corrupted by all she had suffered: she knew that Mason’s actions were irrational and erratic and inexplainable. She’d learned through the years that Mason didn’t need a reason to hurt her: the fact he was her brother was satisfying cause enough in his sadistic mind. She certainly hadn’t had a choice about that and so there was no way she would let him warp her self-concept to where his viciousness was her fault. She learned very quickly that she was all she had, and as such, it was more destructive to resent herself than it was to resent the person who truly deserved her blame.

Even with all of that accepted, Margot did not feel guiltless when she thought about what happened. Her impulsiveness, her lack of planning, cost her a valid chance at freedom. Her naive arrogance that her plan was too clever to be detected had cost her much more.

She wasn’t unnecessarily sentimental. She knew it had been a cluster of cells, a thoughtless piece of a person that hadn’t even had the ability to take a breath before it had been taken from her. She knew her ability to carry and conceive a child did not define her as a woman, and her now inability to do so had not triggered an identity crisis. She had grieved her loss in terms of how it impacted her future; how it confined her to a life with Mason, rather than the loss of potential in the life she’d created.

But she had dreams sometimes, their soundtrack the helpless cry of an infant. She would search this house in the darkness, but she couldn’t place the crying, couldn’t find the child in time, and then the crying would change to a horrible pitched shrieking and when it stopped, when it _finally_ stopped, Mason’s laughter would fill her ears instead, followed by his cruelest taunt to date: " _The only one you’ll be celebrating Mother’s day with, Margot, is me.”_

 _If she’d left sooner_. If she had made the decision to choose a connection with the child she carried over the money and the business and the power, rather than trying to blend the two; if she’d put the life she purposely created before the one she wanted. _If, if, if._

“I know,” she said, because while she may have questioned her own desperate actions, she didn’t have to question Mason’s: they had been intentionally monstrous. “I blame Mason exclusively.”

Alana didn’t look like she believed her. Before she could press on, a thought seemed to strike, almost out of nowhere. “Is that when Hannibal became involved?” A pause as she narrowed her eyes. “And Will?”

This was the part where Margot found herself hesitating. Alana had said there was nothing romantic between her and Will, but Margot had seen articles online which suggested otherwise. Alana hadn’t portrayed their relationship in a very positive light, and yet she was looking after his dogs indefinitely and making apologetic house calls following a fight which seemed to have completely shattered her emotionally.

Margot wasn’t jealous of Will, whatever the true nature of his relationship with Alana. She didn’t care if they were friends or ex’s or whatever else might explain the inconsistent way they seemed to treat each other. If Margot allowed Alana’s unresolved issues with the men in her life to come between them they’d never get _anywhere_.  

What she cared about was that Alana had finally seemed to find some trust in her; that last night, she’d put aside whatever had had her pushing Margot away just a few days before. That she’d said “ _I don’t doubt you,”_ and “ _We’ll be fine,”_ and Margot really wasn’t convinced that admitting she’d tricked Will Graham into conceiving a child with her would give either of those statements merit.

For one thing, Alana was openly disapproving of malicious manipulation, which was what she would unquestionably label Margot’s night with Will as. She had been anything but encouraging about Margot’s plans regarding financial security. She wouldn’t understand why Margot felt driven to the lengths that she went to, especially not if she used someone Alana cared about to achieve her means.

Alana had asked her not to prove her wrong, and Margot was making a sincere effort not to. She’d also said that there were some secrets best kept that way. It was a gift-wrapped cover-up that was doing them both a favour, in Margot’s opinion.

“Yes. They offered to kill him.”

Alana barely blinked, but her discontentment was obvious from her furrowed eyebrows, her blank tone, “I’m sure they did.”

“I told them it would mean me losing everything.” Margot gave a small shrug. “Evidently, they devised another way.”

“Evidently.” Alana glanced down at the scar again, and when she looked back to Margot, sympathy seemed to bleed from her, in the softness around her eyes, the gentleness of her expression. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I wish I’d known you then. I wish you hadn’t had to go through that, especially not on your own.”

“It would have been stranger not to be alone,” Margot admitted, because what else was there to say? Alana's presence would not have made the situation any easier: there was no use pretending. “I suppose it would have been harder to adjust to being a parent than it is to know I will never be one.”

“I wouldn’t say never.” Alana tilted her head. “You can still be a mother, someday. There is more to being a parent than biology, Margot.”

“And you would recommend that for me? Motherhood?” A quirked eyebrow and a skeptic look designed to make Alana fumble for an explanation in a way that would betray her intentions clearly to Margot. Her words had come across too dubious for Margot to decipher.

She was fairly certain Alana wasn’t exactly _offering,_ but it still seemed a strange thought given how apprehensive Alana was about her behaviour in general. Even if Alana trusted her now, wasn’t it irresponsible to even suggest bringing an innocent child into the mix? She wasn’t thinking of herself-- because Margot had never doubted her ability to be a mother before it had been taken away from her: she was thinking of Mason.

Now that Alana had completely renounced her role as Margot’s psychiatrist, she didn’t have to run with Margot’s insinuations. It proved to be one of the times when she exercised this right, choosing to kiss Margot’s cheek: an attempt at distraction, perhaps. “ _Someday_ , I think you would make a wonderful mother, Margot.” Alana reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Until then, I think you should focus on you.”

“Is that your idea of a deal?” She wasn’t joking, at least not completely, but Alana found her proposition hilarious.

“You are such hard work, do you know that?” Kissing her again, all bitten lips and greedy tongues, she shifted backwards, pulling Margot with her.

 


	14. run rings around roses

When Alana woke up again, she was alone, wrapped in the sofa throw but no longer shivering. The room felt warmer, despite its emptiness. She supposed it was the heating, now it was probably mid-morning and the house had some life about it.

She wasn't surprised that Margot had slipped off, nor did she have to wonder where she'd gone. Alana expected her to be with the horses, desiring some physical distance after her emotional openness earlier, and she didn't blame her for that. She was still trying to make sense of what Margot had told her-- the pregnancy, the horrific way Mason had reacted, the consequences.

Recalling the emptiness in Margot's eyes when she recounted her trauma, desensitized and matter-of-fact, Alana's heart ached. She'd only just managed to erode Margot's typical front, and to witness it again in such an honest moment felt like the cruelest kind of reminder that it was the dark parts of the past that no amount of nights like their last could overshadow.

Maybe Margot had expected more from her, in terms of comfort, and if she were being honest, Alana probably expected more from herself: but there had been no preparation, no warning-- just a flippant comment the previous evening about secrets and lies that at the time had been hidden under a blanket of lust, and Alana couldn’t reprimand herself for not predicting this because it was simply so awful she never wanted to believe her mind would supply it of its own accord.

In truth, years of specializing in family trauma hadn't meant a single goddamn thing when she had somebody she'd just made love to in her arms, nothing but skin and scar tissue and a sinking feeling of helplessness between them. She'd been beyond words, except the obvious, but she knew of course that there was nothing she could have or should have said. Margot's pain could not be cured by the power of a sentence; her suffering could not be reduced to a question awaiting the perfect answer. Alana had done the best she could, in one of the most difficult moments of their time together so far,and Margot was the type of person for whom actions spoke louder than words: consistently proving to Margot that she was silently still here was already proving to be more valuable.  

She slipped into Margot's button-down blouse from the day before-- conveniently placed within her reach, despite the fact all other trace of Margot was gone, and Alana just _had_ to roll her eyes at Margot's attempt at subtlety, at another little challenge. Honestly, the other woman must have thought Alana was an absolute fool.

Putting her bra on underneath, as an afterthought, Alana thought that maybe she _was,_ or at least when it came to Margot.

Making her way into the kitchen, she set about making breakfast as a distraction from doubting herself-- unsuccessfully. She stood on her tiptoes and stared into the cupboard she could only just reach while quietly reminding herself that, in this case at least, being foolish equated to being happy, and wasn't that better than going back to how her life had been before? 

Only ever listening to her head had made her so _lonely._ On the other hand, listening to her heart, last time, had almost got her killed. 

“Dr. Bloom?” The voice startled her enough to let out a hitched-gasp, and then she was slamming the cupboards shut and turning, her heart beating in her ears while she made a point of standing up a little straighter in an effort to pretend it wasn’t.

It was clear to see Dr. Doemling wasn’t fooled. He cast his stormy eyes over her once, lips set in a thin frown. “Dr. Bloom, Mr. Verger would like to see you.”

“Mason wants to see _me_?” Dread was a weight on her chest, pressing against her ribs. She folded and unfolded her arms. “Why?”

“I believe it has to do with your... _relationship_ with his sister.” Doemling was choosing his words carefully, his pausing deliberate. Uncertainty came naturally to him.

Alana glanced over her shoulder, toward the window. The last time she’d been in a room alone with Mason, she’d been met with hostility from Margot. It hadn’t mattered so much then, when they were learning each others boundaries-- now though, she had something to lose.

“She’ll be out there until eleven,” Doemling added, a hint of something... _sympathetic_ in his voice as he met Alana’s eyes when she turned back to him. “She is most days, anyway. It’s possible she might rush back on your account, but I’m sure you know more than I do how unlike her that would be.”

He made a valid point, yet still Alana hesitated. So many times she'd emphasized the importance of Margot saving herself while she maintained a healthy distance-- interfering by meeting with Mason seemed to undermine that.

She knew nothing good could possibly come from speaking to Mason, and the most she would have to look forward to were blatant threats, but she also knew that if he didn’t direct them toward her, he would ensure Margot heard enough for them both.

“Five minutes,” she said, her insides suddenly cold at the thought of the pain Margot had already relieved in the last twenty-four hours because of her brother. “Five minutes, and I need to get dressed first.”

“Mr. Verger does not care what you’re wearing,” Doemling insisted dryly, but Alana would be _damned_ if she was going to stand in front of Mason Verger in nothing but his sister’s shirt and expect to be taken seriously. She was no stranger to having to fight for people’s respect, and while she didn’t place any value whatsoever on Mason’s, she still regarded herself a little too highly for that.

Doemling waited outside the parlor doors as she slipped into yesterday’s clothes-- only marginally more dignified, perhaps, but they certainly made her feel more prepared. She scraped her hair back and silently declared salvaging what was left of her make-up a lost cause.

She followed Doemling up the stairs barefoot and in silence: he walked briskly, as though anxious she might change her mind, and she made a point of not looking over her shoulder for the same reason-- but God, did she want to.

He held the door to what she assumed was Mason's study open for her, clearing his throat. She kept her eyes on him until she had no choice but to look ahead, until she had stepped into the room.

The creaking of Mason's wheelchair as it turned toward her was nowhere near as intimidating as he no doubt thought it was. She had seen his injures, his scars, twice now, and although her stomach still churned at the sight, the thought of all the ways he'd mutilated his sister seemed to pale in comparison: any sympathy that had once welled inside her had quickly dried up in light of Margot's most recent confession.

“Dr Bloom! Fantastic to see you again. And so early in the morning, too. Tell me, did you take off your shoes to avoid damaging our carpet?”

For a split second, she found herself wishing Hannibal had taken Mason's vocal cords while he was at it.

“Can you make this quick?” She glanced at the clock above Mason's chair without bothering to read it. “I have somewhere to be.”

“My sister can wait.”

Doemling hung back, choosing to direct his attention to files of papers on a desk beside the window. He flicked through the pages with his teeth on his bottom lip and agitated, unsteady eyes that seemed to suspect they were being watched.

Mason was unapologetically resentful the fact he was not the centre of Alana's attention. He let out a little growl of frustration. “ _So_! You've had the pleasure of meeting my latest extra. I just  _had_ to find myself a nice doctor too: can't let Margot have allthe fun now, can I, Dr. Bloom?”

Alana glanced at him only briefly before turning back to his doctor, mercilessly playing on Mason’s frustration. She half-expected Doemling to look offended by Mason’s words: in actuality, he didn't even look up from his papers. Still, his cheeks flushed.

“That's what I love about you _doctors_ ,” Mason teased, “So obedient. Almost like pets!”

“We aren't the same kind of doctor,” Alana clarified, feeling compelled to draw the distinction for Doemling's sake as much as her own. 

“No. No-- of course not. And only one of you is currently respected in your field.” Mason proceeded to practically choke on his laughter. Doemling seemed content to ignore it, moving toward him only when he looked up and caught Alana staring. By the time he was at his side, Mason was recovered and continuing, “that's why I wanted to see you, actually. I can be of help to you, recovering your reputation.”

She didn't know which part she found more ridiculous: that _he_ was concerned with _her_ reputation, that he thought there was anything he could do that might possibly be of help to her, or the fact he expected her to believe his bullshit.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, scathingly, “but I do not need _your_ help.”

“Oh, but you do, Dr. Bloom.” He'd anticipated her immediate refusal, then: his arrogance knew some kind of bounds. “I know a way you can re-establish yourself. Don't you want to re-gain your professional respect? Don't you want a chance to re-build your career?”

She wondered what someone like Mason-- who had never had to work for anything beyond his father's approval, who had had a dangerously lucrative empire handed to him simply because he was born with a penis, whose past discrepancies had been quickly covered up with money and ignorance-- knew about dedicating nearly a decade to professions you loved, carefully crafting a reputation to be proud of, only to have it permanently tarnished by one relationship; only to wake up in a hospital room one morning to be told that, essentially, all your hard work had vanished overnight.

“You can't help me with that, Mason.” If anything, this latest affiliation was sure to only be the final nail in her coffin. She lived, dreading the day Freddie Lounds photographed her and Margot together. 

“I think you'll find only _I_ can.” Mason's attempt at a smile was enough to make her eyes flick to Doemling, who seemed only marginally less uncomfortable than she was. “Dr. Bloom, tell me: how would you like to be the one to catch Hannibal Lecter?”

She barely managed to repress a sigh. “I'm not working with the FBI right now--”

“-- no. You're working with _me._ With my manpower and,” his eyes rolled around the room, “ _wealth_ , and your... 'skills,' we will make a wonderful team. Don't you think so?”

It was a surprise, his proposition, but it wasn't a pleasant one. Nor was it one which weighed too heavily on her mind, evoked much thought. From where she stood, it wasn't even a possibility. “The problem withstanding that I have _no_ interest whatsoever in working with you.”

“You can work _for_ me if you prefer.” He licked what was left of his lips. “Did I not mention I am willing to offer a reward for his capture?”

“Even if you had mentioned it, I still wouldn't be interested.” Alana crossed her arms. “Are we done?”

“My only condition is that Will Graham not be involved. After his... _influence_ last time, I don't deem him too trustworthy. I'm sure you can understand,” he said this in a tone that implied that of course she _didn't_ , but the last person Alana would ask for an accurate recount of the events she hadn’t been privy to was Mason Verger.

“Yet you trust _me_?” She raised an eyebrow. “This is our second conversation.”

“Let me tell you something about my sister, Dr. Bloom. There are not a lot of things she is apt at: there aren't even a few things. There is one, really, if I'm being honest. Don't tell her I told you, but Margot is exceptional at gravitating toward people who can be of great use.” He paused to roll his eyes. “Oh, don't look at me like that. Not just to _me_. To herself, too. She's very resourceful, our Margot.”

She couldn’t help but note that, during their previous conversation, he’d been careful to emphasize his control, repeating, ' _My_ Margot' like it were a threat. with the words. Now, suddenly, she was ‘ _ours_ ’ and Alana found this attempt at bargaining more repulsive than his digs about her own career: Margot wasn't hers any more than she was Mason's. People were not property, and yet Mason still believed he could buy her, still believed he owned his sister.

“She's had to be,” Alana said, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh dear, she's told you the sad parts, has she? Our Margot and her lies. My sister is notoriously flexible with the truth. Let that be a warning to _you_ , Dr. Bloom!” Mason let this hang between them for a moment before continuing, “I'm not like everyone else that she fools. I see through her lies, and I trust you because Margot does.”

“Surely that would a better reason _not_ to trust me?”

“Life with my sister is not that black-and-white, unfortunately.” Mason clicked his tongue. “Besides! You women make such wonderful puppets. You'll excuse me if I don't feel _threatened_ by you.” The very suggestion had him cackling all over again, with Doemling's hand tightening its grip on the handle of the wheelchair at the sound.

“I think we're done here,” Alana announced, turning quickly with a wince at the burn of the carpet against the soles of her feet.

“My offer will stand as long as Dr. Lecter is out there-- killing.” Mason tutted. “Innocent, innocent people. You really ought to consider it, Dr. Bloom. Being responsible for his capture would be a wonderful way to clear the conscience.”

“My conscience is clear,” she half-spat, outright anger at his treatment of Margot and bitterness at the way he’d spoken to her taking over, “is yours?”

“Not entirely. I let Dr. Lecter take place in my sister's life-- I _feel_ like I left her open to his manipulation.” His eyes shone, all cruel teasing and no sincerity and Alana knew he was using Margot to get to her. Perhaps that kind of emotional blackmail worked on someone like Will, who thought they could be a knight in shining armor, but Alana knew better. “She could have been killed by him. I don't know how I would have ever _forgiven_ him, or myself.”

His words didn't make her think of Margot at all, despite his best attempts, but instead of Abigail. She didn't know if it had been another intention of his-- wouldn't have been surprised if he knew the whole story, or had guessed from what he read-- but it was the first thing he had said that caused her to hesitate before shutting him down.

She wanted justice for Abigail, yes, but she never thought she'd have to go after it herself.

“We're done here,” Alana repeated, meeting Mason's eye and holding it with firm resolve.

“Take some time to think about then: I'm generous like that, but I think we can both agree there's no need to trouble dear Margot with this _business_. It's much too complex for her delicate mind, and it'll only upset her. We don't want that. We don't want Margot to get hurt now, do we, Dr. Bloom?”

She wasn't quite sure if this was Mason's way of threatening her into his way of thinking, but Alana didn't feel intimidated. It would be easy to use his words as an excuse not to tell Margot, but Alana had no intention of lying to her. Sometimes protecting people you cared about didn't mean taking the first option that was given. They were reasonable adults, they could have a conversation about it and make a plan: perhaps an active threat against her might be the last push Margot needed to leave.

She wanted to bite back that his sister's trust might have been fragile and tentative but her will wasn't; that she was remarkably resilient but had a wonderful capacity for feeling and that underestimating her, even flippantly like this, just might prove to be his biggest downfall of all-- but things like that sounded provocative in a way that only placed Margot in further danger. It sent a horrible shiver of defeat coursing through her that even defending Margot was simultaneously putting her at risk psychically and undermining her emotionally.

“Why don't you let me worry about your sister's feelings?” If she sounded hostile, it was because she was. Her eyes flicked to Doemling as she took a calming breath and tried to rectify, “I'm sure Dr. Doemling will agree you should be focusing on yourself right now.”

“Your _concern_ is touching,” Mason cut in, just as Doemling opened his mouth and silence came out. “Now. You were leaving, Dr. Bloom? Do remember to come back when you change your mind.”

Even his dismissal made her angry. “Hold your breath, won't you?”

It wasn't until she'd slammed the door behind her, Doemling at her heels to catch it (unsuccessfully) before it occurred to her that Mason had said _when_ rather than _if._ His arrogance was so startling she almost laughed out loud on the stairs.

She retrieved her heels and slipped into them in the library before wandering through most of the downstairs rooms in search of Margot, purse slung over her shoulder. In the kitchen, she checked her phone to find a missed call and message from her brother: _We still good for lunch tomorrow?_

Tomorrow-- as in today, because the text and call had come last night while she'd been a room away fucking Margot. She felt a headache throb between her eyes while her stomach tied itself into guilty knots. She'd been ignoring Adam's calls for days now because things with Margot had demanded her attention, but he didn't know about Margot, which meant he was steadily assuming the worst. She'd hoped meeting for lunch might reassure him.

She took her morning dose of painkillers with a glass of water from the Verger's fridge, just as Margot entered the kitchen in her riding gear, minus the hat.

“Morning,” she said, pressed against the doorway like she was the one who didn't belong. It took her a maximum of ten seconds for her to determine something had happened. “What's wrong?”

“We needto talk,” Alana said, turning to look at her. “But not now. I have to go: I have an hour drive and a well-meant lecture ahead of me.”

Margot didn't look surprised-- but then, she rarely did-- but her eyes flickered from Alana's for just a second, a momentary lapse in control that betrayed her disappointment.

Alana dug around in her bag for a moment, before slipping a single key out of one of it's pockets.

She'd planned to give it to Margot the previous day, but then she'd walked in on the other woman's idea of a room renovation and things had shifted so quickly she'd forgotten...until Mason threw a threat in Margot's direction.

Taking a step forward, she took Margot's hand in her own and pressed the key against her palm, Margot's eyes widening. “Take this. Can you do something for me?”

“If you want me to feed your dogs--”

“--Yes, yes, that's exactly what I want.” It wasn't, but it was a good enough explanation for now: _and_ something she'd genuinely forgotten. “Just go to mine and feed the dogs and I'll be back as soon as I can. Stay there, until I get back. Please?”

Margot frowned. “When you say we need to talk...”

She couldn’t tell her here, even if she had the time, but if she didn't, Margot would spend the rest of the day obsessing over it. “Everything's fine,” Alana said, squeezing her wrist tenderly. “We're fine. Don't worry. I'd just feel better if you were at mine for now. Okay?"

“If you insist.” Of course, Margot would make this seem like the most impossible task in the world, but Alana didn't have time to reason with her.

“Thank you,” she said, voice full of relief, and she could _feel_ the way Margot was looking at her shift: curious and concerned. “If you need anything, call me. I won't be long.”

Letting go of Margot's wrist as the other woman's fingers curled around the key, Alana hesitated only for a second before leaning in and kissing her. It was haste, barely more than a brush of dry lips, but it was the most reassurance she could offer.

* * *

 After Alana left, Margot went upstairs to change, every moment in between permeated with thoughts of the night before and the confusion this morning had brought. Was Alana backtracking again? Was it because Margot hadn't stayed until she woke up? Was it because of what she'd _said_?

She knew it shouldn't bother her. So Alana had rushed off-- she had also given her her spare key, which might as well have been burning a hole through the pocket of Margot's jacket, she was so acutely aware of it's presence. It was a  _positive_ gesture: not only had she said Margot was welcome any time, she was also implementing that welcome. It was a safety net, something Margot had never had before, something she hadn't realized she'd even wanted until it was opened wide enough to catch her.

Still, she could not shake the feeling that she'd made a mistake and just didn't know what that mistake was yet.

She didn't have to wait very long to find out. She found Dr. Doemling in the kitchen, making coffee, while she searched for the coat Alana had left without.

He didn't turn, or really even register her presence, but she watched his posture stiffen. She could count on one hand the amount of times she'd ran into him like this since he began working for Mason: he barely left her brother's side, and as such, had ensured that he had everything he could ever need upstairs.

The fact he was here, in her kitchen, irritated her almost as much as the thought of him having something to do with Alana leaving like that. She crossed the room to stand beside him, folding her arms. “What did you say to her?”

He lifted his head, but didn't turn. “Excuse me?”

“You don't want to lie to me.” Her shoulders felt stiff as she pushed them back, an invisible weight that she wouldn’t be able to shake now Alana was well and truly on her brother’s radar.

His right eyelid twitched, but still he did not face her. “I'm afraid I may have startled your...” he cleared his throat pointedly, “ _...Dr. Bloom_. I came to check that the fire had gone out properly-- as I do most mornings: a habit of mine, I'm afraid. I didn't realize there would be anyone in the parlor.”

Margot's mouth was dry when she spoke again. “How do you know her name?”

A faint blush rose in his cheeks. “Yesterday, when I opened the door to her, she introduced herself.”

“No, she didn't.” Margot really had no idea what Alana had said to Doemling on the doorstep, but he didn't seem to either. It was obvious he was lying. “You've heard about her from my brother.”

“He's _mentioned_ her, in passing,” he said, glancing down at his empty cup. “Only in relation to you. Truth be told, I saw her in the newspapers before I saw her with you.”

“She is _nothing_ to you,” Margot said, slowly, so her voice would not shake under the force with which she spoke. “As far as you are concerned, she doesn't exist.”

He offered her a thin smile that she found more repulsive than endearing. “I'm your brother's physician, Margot. I am not the enemy.”

“I don't know _who_ you are.” Nor did she care. She just wanted him to stay the hell away from them. What had she been thinking, leaving Alana alone in the house?

She hadn't been thinking, or more accurately, she'd been thinking of herself. She hadn't been ready for Alana to look at her differently following their confession about the pregnancy: she'd expected a week's worth of pity-filled glances, a renewed profile of her as a victim when she'd only just seemed to have Alana believing she was more than that. In her rush to preserve her pride, she hadn't been thinking of logistics like Alana's safety.

“Perhaps not, but I know who _you_ are,” Doemling said, too calmly for Margot's liking. She was more accustomed to the loud, obnoxious threats of Mason's men. “My primary concern is your brother's health. We both know you have been...an _obstacle_ to that in the past.”

“What are saying?” His sudden defiance surprised her: maybe she had been wrong about Dr. Cordell Doemling; maybe she'd written him off too quickly. 

“I think it best that you and your brother take some time apart, don't you?” He licked his lips, beady eyes blinking with just a hint of nervousness. It was clear to see he had an agenda of his own, and months ago Margot might have cared but in this present moment, she found it difficult to muster up the enthusiasm to question him. No one with a hidden agenda ever lasted very long around here: she had no reason to believe Doemling would be any different. “I don't mean to overstep my boundaries, of course, but I have to think of my patient's safety--”

“You're concerned I might try and kill my brother again.” Realization came in a sick bolt that jolted her to her core. “Did you suggest this to Dr. Bloom?”

“We spoke briefly,” Doemling admitted. “It may have come up.”

Suddenly, the key in her pocket felt plastic, fake; like the toy key to a child's doll house. Maybe Alana hadn't actually planned to give it to her at all; maybe it had simply been a ploy to lure her away. Maybe that was why she wanted Margot out of the house so desperately, so she wouldn't kill her brother. The prospect bothered her more than it should have, more than it would have weeks ago.

Yes, she wanted her brother dead, but she'd wanted that for years. She wasn't about to act on it again when she finally had a reason _not_ to. She wondered how it was that she was supposed to trust Alana, but earning any type of trust in return was like pulling teeth. She wondered how long she would be judged by Hannibal Lecter's standards. 

Pride urged her to stay home, to hell with Doemling and Alana and all their conspiring. A slight flicker of hope that remained from the night before had her driving out to Alana's, muttering under her breath as dogs ran between her legs.

* * *

Lunch with her brother had turned into a much-deserved interrogation and a shopping trip aimed to distract him from all his questioning. He suspected she was seeing someone, but he hadn't brought it up yet, and she was thankful, although the relief of having the conversation over and done with would have been nice. He was working up the courage-- she could always tell with Adam: he was so refreshingly easy to read.

It was not that she expected him to be anything but supportive; it was not that his opinion mattered more to her than her own even if he _wasn't._ It was just that a part of her didn't want to have to deal with outside influences: even if she knew it wasn't right, she _liked_ that her relationship with Margot existed inside a bubble.

Things with Hannibal had seemed so public, even when they weren’t. A part of her wondered still if it was her own stubbornness, her drive to prove Will and Jack wrong, that had paved the way for the disaster which ensued. Maybe if she hadn't been so busy trying to be right, she might have taken pause enough to see exactly what she didn't want to.

Her run-in with Mason that morning had only reinforced the importance that, this time, she understood exactly what she was immersed in before someone else could have the chance to burst it. He’d said that his sister was flexible with the truth, and while she’d already accepted there might be a thousand things Margot would never tell her, she wasn't ready for that to be subject to someone else's scrutiny just yet. 

“I let the dogs out a while ago, they were whining at the door. Is that alright?” Margot was setting the table when Alana found her in the kitchen, the combined aroma of garlic and cheese filling the room, tickling her nostrils, causing her stomach to growl.

“That’s fine. They’ll stay in the garden.” Still, she paused by the window for a quick headcount, before motioning to the table. “You cooked?”

“Does that surprise you?” Margot leaned against the counter. “Contrary to my brother’s belief, I can be remarkably self-sufficient.”

“I’m just glad you made yourself at home,” Alana replied evenly. She could have grasped that opportunity to interject about her run-in with Mason that morning, but she stopped herself. This was too pleasant a scene to ruin prematurely. “What are you making? It smells delicious.”

“Crisp Italian chicken & polenta. It was my mother’s recipe, or at least she claimed it was.”

Suddenly, telling Margot about her brother’s plans didn’t seem quite as important as this new spark of information about her childhood was. “You haven’t mentioned your mother to me before.”

Margot’s eyes narrowed, but there was no malice there. She was probably flattered by Alana’s intrigue. “Yes. You stopped being my psychiatrist before we had the opportunity to broach the subject.”

“Could we broach it now?” Alana pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down.

Margot checked on the chicken and then followed suit. “What is there to say?”

“You tell me.” _What happened to her? Why didn’t she protect you, either? Was she just as bad as Mason and your father?_ Alana settled with the tender but effective, “What was she like?”

“I don’t remember very much. She wasn’t enamored with family life, but then I suppose she had no reason to be.” Margot’s tone was unaffected, but Alana thought that her drive to become a mother contradicted it. “We were not a typical family.”

“I suppose not.” The Verger’s might have been anything that didn't fit the description of normal, but it was the only normal Margot had ever known. It was telling that she had not only recognized that it was dysfunctional on her own, but that she'd seemed to accept this fact. It felt like another small step forward. “What does a typical family look like?”

Margot nodded to the framed photograph on Alana’s far wall: a professional one, taken two days after Andrew’s business school graduation. Her oldest brother was centrefold, dressed in his robes and clutching his MBA certificate with pride on his face: a teenage Adam on one side, a much brighter Alana on the other. Behind them, their parents stood, each with a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and another on Adam or Alana’s. They were all smiling. “Like that,” Margot said simply.

It was only one of hundreds Alana had of the five of them together. Her parents had been the kind to send personalized Christmas cards, take family portraits once a year, ask strangers to snap a moment on holiday. It was something Alana had found mortifying when she was a teenager: now that they’d been dead for almost seven years and photographs were the only way she could see the light in their eyes when they had looked at her and her brothers, she was supremely grateful her time with them had been so well documented.

“You don’t talk about them, either,” Margot said. “Aren’t you close?”

“They died,” Alana said, forcing a weak but reassuring smile as Margot's eyes flashed with remorse. “They were driving back from seeing my brother one night, and the roads  were dark and icy. When the car started to skid, we think my mother panicked and hit the brakes.”

Alana let Margot take her hand, remembering the night she received the call that shattered her world. She’d been working late in Hannibal’s office, preoccupied with paperwork, and Adam’s words hadn’t really sunk in until she was trying to relay them to Hannibal in the hopes of being allowed to leave early. She stood in front of his desk and burst into tears, crumbling like a piece of paper and crying harder when he took her in his arms for what she now counted as the first time.

Hannibal had driven her to the hospital where her brothers were waiting, listening to her sob grief-stricken nonsense all the way-- like how it was two weeks from Christmas and that meant they couldn’t _possibly_ be dead, because things like that didn’t happen to families like hers.

He’d told her to take as long as she needed, strongly suggesting a minimum of fourteen days, and when she showed up after only three, he didn’t question it. Instead, he rattled off a list of mundane tasks that kept her from thinking too much. When she broke down again on day six, he poured her a drink and said everything she needed to hear except _I told you so._

Perhaps that was an example of a time when his intentions toward her had been sincere, but the memory still filled her with resentment. It was a succession of moments she would have to live with forever, the loss of her parents, and it was difficult enough to reflect on without his presence poisoning it.

“We scattered their ashes on the beach where they honeymooned, in North Carolina.” Recalling it made her laugh, although it had been anything but funny at the time, with one brother so stuck in denial that he refused to get out of the car and the other falling to pieces beside her. “My father would have hated it, but my mother always managed to get her way with him.”

Margot watched her carefully for a moment, and then she nodded. “Well, I suppose you had to get it from somewhere.”

Alana tilted her head. “Do you think I get my way with you, Margot?” She was trying very hard not to exploit Margot’s vulnerability-- her desire for a connection. It was difficult when it was something she was similarly hungry for.

“I haven’t killed my brother yet, have I?” She was teasing, but Alana didn’t approve. She thought of the shadows in Mason’s eyes as he spoke about his sister as if she were nothing more than a piece of meat he’d manufactured; the shift in his voice when he’d been feigning concern about her. His words, ' _We don’t want Margot to get hurt now, do we?'_  Alana might not have wanted Mason’s death on her conscience, but she that didn’t mean harm coming to Margot was even slightly preferable.

“You’re supposed to be doing that for _you_ , not me.”

“I am, I suppose. He's worth more alive than dead-- currently, at least.” It wasn’t quite the answer Alana had been hoping for, and Margot seemed to sense this. “I know Doemling may have suggested differently, but I'm not constructing a plan.”

 _He’s worth more alive than dead-- currently._ Her thoughts flicked to Mason’s promise of a reward. Would Margot be as repulsed as Alana by his offer if she knew there was money involved? She’d hoped it would make Margot leave, but perhaps it would do the opposite, spurring Margot to further action-- or worse, causing her to encourage Alana to accept his offer as a means of manipulation.

To which Alana would say no, and then where would they be?

Alana paused, “Doemling?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “He thinks he frightened you this morning, with talk of me killing my brother. I would argue we have greater reason to be suspicious of _him._ ”

“He didn't frighten me.” Quite the opposite, really. He'd _surprised_ her. He seemed approachable, unsettled, uncomfortable with being under Mason’s control. She’d filed her assessment of him away in her mind, hoping it would never prove necessary but strongly suspecting it would. “What did he tell you, exactly? About this morning?”

It didn't make sense to her that he would have told Margot about her meeting with Mason, unless he was purposely going against Mason's wishes. Margot might have been tricky to deceive, but surely he hadn’t been plucked from a virtuous, lie-free life to work with Mason.

“He implied that you two had spoken about my relationship with my brother.” Margot narrowed her eyes. “He thinks I should stay away from Mason. I assumed that was why you gave me the key.”

So Doemling _hadn't_ told her about Mason's bargain-- curious, but there was always the chance he had lied to protect Margot. The question was, _why_? Whose side was Doemling on?

“That's not why I gave you the key.” If Doemling's lie had made her believe that, the truth about Alana’s conversation with Mason would have made the sentiment even less sincere. “I want you to be here as much as much as you want to be. It has nothing to do with Doemling or your brother. I _want_ you here.”

Earlier, it had seemed like a way to protect her, but now that Alana had thought about it, it probably didn’t make her any safer at all. Mason knew where she lived, no doubt. There was no way of hiding, even if that had been what she was after.

Until this moment, Alana had been convinced she would tell Margot everything: now, she looked at the woman in front of her, looked at their fingers laced together, and thought that the defensive panic it might send her into was not worth it, considering she did not plan to revisit Mason's offer.

She risked having Margot walk out of her kitchen and into a situation she could not control and which would most likely lead to her getting hurt. Or, she risked opening the door to a conversation that would be too loud of a reminder that they weren’t just on two different pages, they were reading from two different _books_.

Margot interrupted her thoughts, as she had done a least a dozen times before. “Mason was obsessed with our mother.”

It didn't come as a surprise to her. She supposed there had to have been a maternal blip somewhere to make him treat women so repulsively. “Oh?”

“She didn’t favor either of us, and he resented that, I suppose. She rejected him, ignored his achievements, offered him neither praise nor criticism.” Margot shrugged. “She was the same with me, of course, but I was used to it. As Papa’s favorite, he felt entitled to her attention, too.” She looked up at Alana. “One day, I came home from school and she was gone. My father told us that she left, but he made no effort to prove it. I don't know that we ever really mentioned her again.”

Alana pressed her palm against Margot’s, and thought of something Mason had said to her that morning: _You women are such wonderful puppets._ Had he heard something similar from his father as a child? “Maybe we could find out what happened to her. Maybe I could help you find her.”

“What is there to find out?” Margot wasn’t angry, just defeated, but she gifted Alana with a small, grateful smile, all the same. It felt like such a raw moment, another tiny little breakthrough that almost took Alana's breath away, and she was immediately grateful she hadn't ruined things by bringing up Mason's ridiculous offer-- not when this was brimming inside Margot. “Either she left me with them, knowing how they were, or my father had her murdered. It sounds cold, but, considering how she was before, her presence wasn’t exactly the _greatest_ loss.”

“It was _still_ a loss,” Alana said gently. Before she could say anything more, Margot got to her feet, untangling their hands and turning toward the oven. She opened it, peered in, then shut it again.

“Enough about my family. Dinner's almost ready. Should we call the dogs in?”

She knew better by now than to press. Margot would gift her with more as they grew more comfortable with each other, as she earned the right to know these things, just as she’d struggled with the physical aspect of their relationship. They had their own personal barriers to overcome, without Mason’s threats and promises to worry about as well.

She would have to tell Margot eventually, but tonight she was content to ignore the splinter of guilt in her chest in favor of savoring the fluttering in her stomach at the sight of Margot in her kitchen, offering the dogs scraps of chicken and humming under her breath when she thought Alana couldn’t hear. She was content to look at someone she was steadily falling for and to reason that all the things they did not know about each other didn’t matter nearly as much as what they already _did_.


	15. I'm in control until it swallows me whole

At lunch with her brother the previous day, Alana had mentioned her upcoming meeting with the FBI. He’d wanted to drive her, an outreach of moral-support she hadn’t particularly wanted but was touched by all the same. Fortunately for her, he’d already missed too many days of work, and so he’d drafted their older brother in instead.

Andrew lived closer to her than Adam, but she saw him even less. He pulled into her driveway fifteen minutes early while she was teasing Margot about her love-hate relationship with the dogs. She kissed Margot’s cheek hastily and met him in the driveway before he could expect to be asked inside.

They drove largely in silence once the typical pleasantries had dissolved.

“You didn’t have to bring me, you know,” she told him, and he said he wanted to, which they both knew was a lie.

“Give me a call when you finish up, alright?” he said, when they pulled into the Guest parking lot and she packed away her credentials, which had been accepted by security-- a tiny glimmer of hope. “I’ll drive round to the front and get you. God only knows where I’ll get parked.”

“Thanks.”

Registering at reception was surprisingly without difficulty too: a lady at the main desk who remembered her issued her with a guest ID without question and explained that Purnell’s office was now on the third floor, rather than the fourth. She didn’t give a reason for the move.

The corridor was quiet, empty, and although she was early, she knocked the door anyway.

“Come in,” Purnell called, and the second she stepped into the office she wished she hadn’t.

There were two chairs in front of Purnell’s desk. One was empty, presumably for her. In the other, sat a smug but scarred Frederick Chilton.

“Dr. Bloom,” he said, louder than whatever automatic greeting Purnell was issuing, righteousness rolling off him in waves as he eyed her up and down. “I’m glad to see you looking so well. And walking, too. I’d heard that was a touch and go matter for a while.”

It seemed petty to point out that _he_ was the one with a cane, although she was certain it was more of a fashion accessory than anything. 

Ignoring him took a great deal of strength, but somehow she managed it. She turned to Purnell, counting backwards from one hundred in her mind. “What is _he_ doing here?”

The woman frowned. “Dr. Chilton has worked with the FBI for many years, Dr. Bloom. We are happy to welcome him back now he has fully recovered.”

_Welcome him back?_ She had interviewed him, dressed in a jumpsuit, when a bullet from Jack’s gun had tore through his face courtesy of Miriam Lass. She had watched as his blood filled the space between them, lying opposite each other on the floor while Jack yelled for a medic and helped her to her feet, Miriam's cries echoing in the room. She had known he survived of course, and a month later, when she knew the truth, she’d actually felt relieved that he hadn’t died for Hannibal’s crimes. She hadn’t wished any more harm on him, however much she loathed his methods of psychiatry; she had felt only mildly resentful when she heard he was back at the hospital again, back manipulating patients with the unorthodox and enjoying it. But she hadn't imagined that the FBI would ever welcome him back.

“This is ridiculous,” she was saying, before she thought to stop herself. Once, so many months ago, she had looked at Kade Purnell and understood that the woman was doing her job-- that being ruthless was a prerequisite for her, a quality she had developed years ago and was now unable to shake. Now, her decisions not only seemed reckless, but unnecessarily vicious, too.

Logically, Alana knew Purnell had not brought Chilton here because she knew how deeply Alana despised him, but logic had been somewhat suffocated by the burning in her mind: the feeling that her thoughts were on fire, her carefully rebuilt stability in ashes. “Ten months ago, you were convinced he was the Chesapeake Ripper. Now, he’s _consulting_ for you?” If Purnell’s concern was the Bureau’s reputation, as she had cited when she’d told Alana they were finished with her, then she had a strange way of protecting it.

She wanted to say more: wanted to add _why_ it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the fact that the FBI had forgiven themselves for the way they had treated Chilton, or that the stigma attached to the accusations directed at him had seemed to dissolve: it was the fact that _she_ was _still_ being punished. It was the fact that, even after everything, he had been able to step right back into a new normal, career and all, while the idea of such still seemed so unattainable for her.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Dr. Bloom,” with a sidelong glance at an indignant Dr. Chilton, Purnell gave a sort of half-shrug that was far less professional than Alana expected. “He may not have been our first choice, but Dr. Chilton is...well, _capable_ , to say the least.”

Chilton sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Ladies, I am actually still in the room,” he commented tersely, before turning to Alana with a pout. “Still, Dr. Bloom, envy is such an ugly quality, don’t you think?”

She would have laughed, had his remark not had merit: she _was_ jealous, and uncharacteristically so. Later, perhaps she would find it within herself to feel guilt at feeling this way, but at present, it frustrated her beyond reason that despite all of Chilton’s suffering, he’d still managed to come out of it all more unscathed than she had. She didn’t even _want_ to profile for the fucking FBI right now, but she would have liked to have the _option_. 

“I was under the impression that you were concerned about the bureau’s reputation.” As she took a step toward Purnell, her knees felt weak with anger. “What do you think employing a man you had imprisoned and charged not a year ago says about the bureau?”

“I think it says that we can see where we went wrong,” Kade said pointedly. “And if I remember correctly, _you_ were one of those leading the witch hunt. It’s on record that you were even prepared to testify against Dr. Chilton, should that have been necessary. You, Dr. Bloom, who we now of course know had reason to be impartial.”

Alana went perfectly still. The phone ringing down the hallway stopped, as if on cue. The only sound, apart from her heartbeat echoing against her ribs, was the tapping of Chilton’s cane against the linoleum floor. “ _Excuse_ me?” she said, even as every instinct she had was pleading with her not to push Purnell because she knew she wasn’t prepared for what was about to be thrown her way.

Purnell shifted in her chair, glancing at Chilton and then back to the seat in front of her. “Dr. Bloom, sit down, we have paperwork--”

“I want you to tell me what you meant by that.” She took a step closer, her hands shaking from the effort it took to keep from balling them into fists. “What exactly were my ‘reasons’ for _leading_ what you call a witch hunt against Dr. Chilton?”

“Perhaps I ought to wait outside,” Chilton said airily, and Purnell shot him a dark look but Alana wasn’t paying enough attention to read it. She was waiting for an answer.

“It might be better to reschedule this, actually,” Purnell suggested tightly, with a flippant flick through the pages of the diary in front of her. “I’m in meetings most of next week. I can do Friday afternoon, assuming nothing urgent arises.”  

“Tell me what you meant!” The demand burst out of her before she could think to stop it, but she didn’t care to anyway. She deserved to know how people saw her. She hated that it wasn’t just her future that had been corrupted: now, her past actions were treated with suspicion too. “You said I had reason to see him as the Chesapeake Ripper. I want to know what you think that reason was.”

Purnell’s eyes were fixed on hers, finally, and she no longer looked pained or uncomfortable-- just aggravated. “I was referring to your... _relationship_ with Hannibal Lecter.”

“What did you mean,” Alana said, deliberately slow and even, “ _specifically?”_

“You were involved with him, romantically. You served as an alibi on more than one occasion. It would be reckless not to consider that you knew more than what it appears.”

“You think I knew what he _was_?” Alana blinked at Purnell, expecting tears to cloud her vision and only mildly relieved when they did not. “You think I knew what he was _doing_? As far back as Dr. Chilton’s arrest?”

She knew what was coming before the words even left Purnell’s mouth, could tell by the quirk of the other woman’s eyebrow and the way she eyed Alana. “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that you had some kind of knowledge or involvement even before that.”

“You  _know_ I didn’t,” Alana said, and everything inside her felt like it was cracking under the weight of the injustice of it all: either she was the woman Hannibal Lecter had duped, or she was the woman who’d helped mask his crimes. Neither description seemed fair, neither felt like her. Either she was senseless and blind and wrong and a sorry excuse for a criminal profiler, or she was someone unrecognizable. 

“Dr. Bloom,” Chilton began, and she turned toward him with a sharp intake of breath and a storm in her eyes, blunting whatever sharpness he was preparing to cut her with. He sighed, dejected, twirling his cane in his hands. “I really ought to go.”

“Oh no, don’t leave on my account.” Alana had no intention of staying, not now. Fuck it _all_ , her bridges were well and truly burned: what else did she have left to lose? “You stay, Chilton.” Her glare flicked to Purnell. “You _deserve_ each other.”

She turned away from them and stormed out of the room, down the corridor, into the open elevator. She waited until the doors closed behind her and Purnell’s exasperated calls for her to come back where silenced by the hum of the elevator before she allowed herself to cry. 

* * *

She wound up in the smoking hut by the parking lot, breathing in the second-hand smoke and reluctantly sending her brother a text to say she was ready to go home.  She wanted to be alone, but she knew it wasn’t a possibility, so she concentrated instead on disguising the fact she’d been crying by facing the cold air. 

“Dr. Bloom?” She turned to see Brian Zeller stopping beside her, a smile breaking out on his face as he dug around in his coat pocket for cigarettes and a lighter. “What are you doing here? Are you back consulting?”

She let out the closest thing to a laugh she was physically capable of mustering. “Not quite.” She glanced at the pack of cigarettes as he slipped one out. “Um, would you mind if I…?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure, no problem,” he handed her the pack quickly, lighter and all, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” she said, taking a cigarette in her fingers. “If there ever was a time to start, though, I think it would be now.”

Zeller nodded, but she didn’t miss the sideway looks he was casting her way. “I was _supposed_ to have stopped months ago.” He sighed guiltily, taking the pack from her as she lit her cigarette. “You won’t tell Jimmy, will you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She exhaled, her heartbeat starting to slow as he breathing evened. She shut her eyes, and for a few glorious seconds, she was nowhere and she was nobody and all there was to ground her was the taste of nicotine in the back of her throat.

“How are you?" he asked. "You doing okay?"

"I thought I was," she admitted. She turned to him, relieved when she found understanding in his eyes rather than sympathy. "How about you?"

He gave a sheepish shrug and looked away. After a moment, he spoke.

"It’s weird, you know,” he said quietly, “not having you guys around. You get used to dealing with the same people, don’t you? It’s just... _strange_. We didn’t think it would change so much.”

“Neither did I.” She looked down at her hands, which had finally stopped shaking. “How are things? Has Jack been back?”

“Nah. We check in with him, when we can, but you know how he is. I think we bother him more than we help.” He gave a small shrug. “He asks about you, though: asks if we’ve seen you.” Zeller paused, awkward. “You two don’t talk?”

She thought about the most recent voicemail she had from Jack on her answering machine: eighty-three seconds that really amounted to nothing but a confirmation he was still alive; she thought of the last time she’d called _him_ , how she’d hung up on the second ring, then spent the majority of the evening praying he didn’t call back.

“No,” she said. “We don’t talk.” They spoke, when guilt or worry crept in; they exchanged small talk to prove to themselves that they still could. But Alana couldn’t remember the last time they’d really _talked._

“That’s a shame,” Zeller said. “I know you two didn’t always get along, but you know he thought the world of you professionally.” He paused, eyes widening, “not that the rest of us don’t-- it’s just you were always Jack’s first call, long before Will Graham. If he didn’t listen to you, it wasn’t because he thought you weren’t right: it’s because he knew you _were_.”

She had known this-- long ago, forgotten among all the bad of the last two years. The fact Jack had believed in her long before anyone else at the FBI _hadn’t_ should have been too moot of a point to bring any real comfort, and on a typical day it would have been, but right now, Alana took this thin thread of hope and tried to tie herself back together with it.

When her cellphone buzzed with a text from her brother to say where he had parked, she quickly stubbed out the cigarette she’d barely smoked and turned to Zeller. “Thank you,” she said, and she knew how hollow the words sounded but she hoped the intensity in her eyes might be able to portray how grateful she was. “You and Price take care, alright?”

He nodded. “You too. And whenever you’re ready to come back...well, we look forward to that.”

She wanted to tell him that day would probably never come, but her breath caught in her throat at the thought. She’d imagined today would bring closure: it would mark the end of a chapter of her life that had been plagued with mistakes and misjudgments; it could have been cleansing, to sign away any remaining ties to the FBI. It could have been the beginning of a fresh start.

It had been final, without question, but not in the way she had hoped. Already, she was regretting not holding herself together more adequately; already, her mind screamed all of the things she had not said in her defense; already, she was questioning why in the world she let Purnell and Chilton ambush her like that, allowed them to tear her down with ridiculous, unfounded accusations.

It was over, but it in her mind it continued on repeat, powerlessness setting in as she crossed the parking lot and fought the urge to look back at the building for what might well be the last time. She felt like she’d been defeated all over again.

* * *

 

Andrew didn’t push her when she got into the car and told him she didn’t want to talk about what happened; he didn’t make a comment about how quick she’d been. If he could tell she’d been crying, he did not let on.

Instead, he handed her the walnut cappuccino he’d bought from reception and turned the radio up.

The oldest, he’d been the one to shut his feelings off, to disengage socially, particularly after their parents died. The day of their funeral, he quit his job in finance and proceeded to spend the following fifteen months backpacking across Europe, calling home only a handful of times and saying so little it made Alana sick with worry. When he returned, he bought a loft with what was left of his inheritance and threw himself into abstract painting.  

These days, he sold his pieces online for far less than they were valued for, was steadily burning through three relationships a year with women Alana never got to meet, and, prior to her life falling apart, only visited on Christmas.

She’d psycho-analysed her brother a hundred times in her mind, but she’d learned years ago not to interfere or voice her thoughts. She was his sister, not his psychiatrist, and that meant it was okay for her to get angry at him when he didn’t come to dinner with her and Adam on their parents’ anniversary or neglected to tell her when he left the country on a whim. It meant she was not obliged to try and understand his behavior-- unfortunately, it also meant she was forced to accept it, without justification or reason.

She supposed he felt the same about her. As children, they’d spent so many night huddled around a torch in their garden treehouse, Andrew telling ghost stories with Adam curled up against her; they’d gone weeks in the summer without playing with any other children, their pretend world enough to keep the three of them occupied; they’d been a thunderous trio of teenagers who lay on each other’s bedroom floors and bitched about the adults in their lives.

She’d cried, on the day they left Andrew at college, almost as hard as their mother had, almost as hard as _he_ did on the day _she_ graduated from John Hopkins. Now, she looked at the man in the seat beside her and saw someone with whom having a relationship with had become a chore.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said, shattering the silence like a glass. “Don’t tell Adam, though. You know what he’s like.”

Andrew’s lips turned up at the corners. “Yeah, he’d never let it go.” He snuck a glance across the car at her, otherwise unaffected by her confession. “Is it serious?”

“I guess.” She rested her head against the glass of the window. “It feels serious. I didn’t mean for it to be, but...I guess I should have expected that it would be.” Alana was taking care not to define serious as something she couldn’t get out of, rather than something she didn’t want to. The thought of breaking things off with Margot felt impossible, in every sense, and she didn’t like to think of herself as trapped, even if it _was_ willingly.

“It’s not that Graham guy, is it?” Andrew shifted beside her, tone tight. “I heard he was back in town.”

“Heard?” Alana raised an eyebrow. “For the record, you could just ask me. I promise I’m more reliable than Tattle Crime.”

“I didn’t read it there.” Andrew cleared his throat. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just...I drive around. I do it, usually when it snow’s really bad, you know? Just to check you and Adam can get out of your drives okay. It’s not a big deal.” He was making an effort not to look at her, cheeks flushed. “The other morning...your car wasn’t there, so I checked a few places. Your weren’t at his house, but I saw his car, so I figured he came back.”

She didn’t exactly approve of Andrew’s methods, but she knew they came from concern. “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “If you called and asked, I’d tell you where I am.” Softer, she added, “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“You’re my _sister_ ,” Andrew scoffed. “I’ve worried about you for as long as I can remember. It comes with the territory.”

Something inside Alana panged. “I didn’t know you did that,” she said weakly, feeling her throat swell shut again as she stared hard at something in the distance to justify the watering in her eyes.

“Mom used to do it,” Andrew replied after a long moment, still not looking at her despite the fact they were stopped at a red light. Still, it was the first time she’d heard him mention either of their parents in years without her or Adam provoking the discussion, so she understood why eye contact seemed such an added difficulty. “She’d drive past yours, deliberately, when she hadn’t heard from you in a few days. She didn’t want to bother you, but sometimes she’d check the car had been moved, and then she’d leave again. A few times, when the snow was real bad, she made Dad go with her and sprinkle salt in your drive.”

“I wish they’d told me,” she said, voice thick with what she really meant to say: _I wish I could have thanked them for that; I wish I would have thanked them for everything._

“They didn’t think it was a big deal. It was just something they did.” Andrew nodded, an answer to whatever question was stuck in his mind. “It’s just something I do now.”

“What do you think they’d say, if they could see us?” She thought of Andrew, whose Math and Economics tests they’d stuck on the refrigerator for years, who now paid someone else to do his taxes; of Adam, their charismatic football star of a son who’d dropped out of college the semester they died and now spent his days hidden in the background of a museum; of herself, the daughter they’d expected would be settled down both relationship and career-wise by now, and her disastrous string of relationships, her crumbling reputation.

“I think they’d be really pissed that we never visit Aunt Rita,” Andrew admitted, and Alana didn’t want to laugh, but she did. “And they’d be annoyed we haven’t given them grandchildren yet. I don’t think they’d hesitate to point out all the things we’re doing wrong. They’d probably think we all made a mess of things.” He looked at her, the next red light a God-send. “But I know they’d buy my paintings anonymously, and they’d go to every new demonstration Adam takes part in and you can bet your life they’d have sent the FBI fifty angry emails on your behalf.”

The idea made her smile. “You’re probably right.” If she ever needed a reason to be grateful, she didn’t have to look much farther than Margot’s family. Alana had struck gold, and she knew it.

Andrew pulled into her driveway, and she invited him in, knowing he would decline but hoping he wouldn’t. As she got out of the car, thanking him for driving her, he turned to her abruptly, something she didn’t recognize in his eyes. “I’m seeing someone too,” he said, “and...this one, it feels different than the others. _She’s_ different.” He paused, offering her a crooked smile that felt so familiar it almost stole her breath. “You can meet mine if I can meet yours.”

* * *

When Margot came over that night, Alana poured her a glass of wine and smirked. “My brother wants to meet you.”

“Your... _brother_?” Margot didn’t hide her horror very well. “Why?”

“I suspect it’s to ensure you’re a step up from Hannibal,” she admitted, “but it was also a gesture of goodwill.” She paused, unsettled as Margot stared her out. “Don’t look too enthusiastic: I told him now wasn’t a great time.”

“Now?” Margot sat back against the sofa. “Try never. I’m not the kind of person you introduce to your family.”

Alana wanted to argue, but the prospect was too daunting after the day she’d had. “We’ll see,” she said simply, willing Margot not to argue just this once.

By some miracle, the other woman seemed to take the hint, and silence ensued as they pressed against each other-- shoulder-to-shoulder, wine glasses forgotten as Alana’s senses filled with Margot instead.

“How did it go?” Margot asked, legs tucked beneath her as her eyes searched Alana’s face for clues.

“Worse than I expected.” There was no point lying, not now she’d had time to process it herself. Talking about it felt more like ripping a plaster from tender skin than undoing a heavily bandaged wound: it stung, but the rush of bleeding did not come. “They’ve replaced me with the most insufferable man on the planet and the common consensus seems to be that I helped Hannibal cover up his crimes.”

Margot’s didn't once blink. “ _Did_ you?”

Alana had to stop herself from physically recoiling when she realized Margot wasn’t joking. “How could you even _ask_ me that?” Of everyone, she hadn’t expected doubt from Margot.

“I didn’t know you before,” Margot said, as though that completely explained her blatant lack of faith in Alana.

“You know me now,” Alana argued. “How could you even _think_ I’d have had any part in that?”

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” Margot continued, her eyes very serious, as though she thought Alana’s insistence of innocence was all for her benefit. “I wouldn’t judge you.”

“ _I_ would judge me,” Alana clarified, narrowing her eyes. “I had nothing to do with what he did. How can you ask me that, now, after everything? I mean, fuck sake, Margot, if you thought I-- why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I _told_ you,” she said tightly, “it doesn’t matter to me if you helped him.”

“It matters to me that I _didn’t_.” Alana didn’t know whether to be horrified or flattered by Margot’s words. “If you don’t believe me--”

Maybe, she thought, they really didn’t know each other. Maybe it had nothing to do with her at all; maybe it was just wishful thinking on Margot’s part. After all, Alana couldn’t help but think how much easier Margot’s life would be if she _were_ morally corrupt.

“-- you said we all have our secrets,” Margot cut in, her lips thin and tightly pressed together. “What’s _yours_?”

“I was being general when I said that. I wasn’t referring to anything specific.” She hadn’t been, at the time. Now, she thought of Mason and her forehead ached. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Deflecting doesn’t dim my suspicion,” Margot retorted, sitting back.

Alana should have tried to reassure her. Alana should have told her about her meeting with Mason. Alana should have made a point of further emphasizing the importance she placed on ethics, before going to bed on her own and possibly re-considering their relationship.

She should have done any or all of these things, but she’d had a terrible day filled with terrible conversations and all she wanted to do was have Margot fuck her until nothing else mattered, until she was lost and drifting again and Margot was the only anchor she had but also the only one she _needed_. And maybe it wasn’t the healthiest thing she’d ever done but if today had shown her anything it was that being with Margot was the first thing that had made her feel anything close to better.

“Does this dim your suspicion?” she asked, shifting until she could pull her dress off over her head, tossing it behind her before shaking her hair loose as she slipped the clips from it and let them fall carelessly from her fingers.

Margot’s eyes flicked to her breasts and then back to her face. “It increases it, actually.”

When Alana moved forward for a kiss, Margot moved her head. “Not tonight, Margot,” Alana said, desperation bleeding into her tone and she would have felt pathetic had she been capable of having a more negative view of herself in that moment. “Please, just give me a break tonight, will you?”

When Margot turned to kiss her, she did not feel her frustration burn itself out; she did not feel renewed and restored as the fog cleared from her stormy mind; her hurt did not disappear in a flash of tender lips and soft hands and lovely warmth; she certainly did not automatically forget. It was no miracle cure, not by a long shot, and as distractions went, it was a poor one.

But she had someone pressed against her who thought she could no wrong, someone whose trust and affection she was earning on her own merit, somebody who put aside her own apprehension to offer comfort because Alana had asked. Margot might have been worry to add to her list, but she was also the best part of Alana’s life at present, her last  shred of hope that something worthwhile might actually have come out of the mess that had been the last two years of her life.

She had to have been doing something right-- or at least this was what Alana told herself.


	16. i start to see your side; you start to see mine

Margot left early the next morning, while Alana showered, with the unspoken promise she would be back. She still had Alana’s spare key, and had made no other attempt to give it back to her, nor had Alana asked-- although a part of her supposed that she should.

She did not regret giving Margot the opportunity to come and go as she pleased, but their conversation the previous night, the fact Margot had questioned her so flippantly, had her thinking that she was wrong for _not_ regretting it. They were both lonely, and what had once seemed such a well considered gesture now seemed like a careless crutch.

Had Alana given Margot the key because she wanted her to have somewhere to turn when it was too dangerous to be at home, or because she herself no longer wanted to be alone? Was she really giving Margot an escape, or just a new place to hide while she played cat and mouse with her brother? There was a fine line between aiding and enabling, and Alana was all too conscious of the fact she was toeing it.

She came back from her morning walk with the dogs to find a familiar courier on her doorstep: Sam Hazel, FBI clerk. He pushed his glasses up when he saw her.

"Dr. Bloom?” He motioned to a stack of papers in his hands. “Agent Purnell send these files over. Paperwork requiring signatures, I believe.”

"Thanks.” She signed for the files, then took them from him as gracefully as she could while the dogs ran between her legs.

He wished her a good day and slinked off to his car while she slipped inside, surprised Margot was not already back (disappointed too, although she was careful not to acknowledge it) Before she could allow herself to give into irrational worry, she took a seat at her kitchen table with Purnell's files in front of her.

A post-it note was tacked to the inside cover: _Dr. Bloom, a shame about the other day, I do hope you're feeling better; areas requiring your attention are highlighted. Please return as quickly as possible. Should you have any questions, do not hesitate to leave me a message. – Kade Purnell._

Rolling her eyes, Alana flicked the page, frowning when she found a copy of her first statement, recorded a day after Hannibal had left. She read the words, trying to recall speaking them, but it was as if she were reading the last page of a book she'd picked at random from an old bookshelf. The questions she'd been asked were bolded for the purpose of distinction, but Alana didn't recognize much of them, either. She understood, but still found it odd, that the night itself was a crisp, fresh memory engraved in her mind, while the days that followed were vague and hazy, barely even still lingering in her subconscious, piecemeal memories blurred around the edges by narcotics and crying.

She traced her photocopied signature with her finger: the shaky 'A', the slanted 'B', the uneven spaces between the letters. It looked so unpractised, so juvenile. Alana decided to take comfort in the fact she couldn't recognize the traumatized version of herself: the woman who couldn't walk without crutches, couldn't sleep without pills. That person was a shadow of both her before _and_ her after, and that was what mattered.

The next few pages did not bring the same relief. A non-exclusive copy of the crime scene analysis, the same one leaked by Freddie Lounds months ago but which Alana had avoided like a plague. She hadn't wanted to read it then, and no doubt Purnell only included it as a courtesy, but she didn't particularly want to read it now, either.

For the most part, there was nothing of note. Some black-and-white photographs were included in the report; chalked outlines of where Jack and Will had almost died, tape where she had so the rain would not wash it away; evidence markers scattered from the doorstep to the kitchen. There was only one of Abigail, her face turned away from the camera, but not enough to hide her listless, vacant stare. Her neck wound was gaping, blood stained her skin, was soaked into her clothes, had left her hair sticky.

Alana wondered, not for the first time, how long it had taken for her to bleed out. She'd asked Will only once, while they were both recovering in hospital, on one of the very rare occasions they'd made an effort to cross each other's paths. He hadn't answered, but the fierce flickers of sadness and regret in his eyes had told her it had been much too long.

The pages that warranted her signatures were the kind of crap she'd expected in the first place: a formal agreement of non-disclosure, a severing of the Bureau's health insurance (which she had not availed of, anyway) and a general release, all of which she signed with only minor hesitation. While nothing would give her greater pleasure than suing the Bureau, Alana could pick her battles, and without the funds or the evidence to support one of such magnitude, she knew this was not one she stood a snowball in hell's chance of winning.

Included in the report, upon second inspection, was a list of evidence collected. It spanned over four and a half pages, most of it frozen meat and things from the basement Alana had only heard about in the newspapers. Third from the bottom on the final page, Alana read, 'Journal-- found: basement,' and she blinked at the three words until she realized what they could mean.

If Hannibal had kept Abigail in the basement-- even if it had only been _some_ of the time-- then there was every chance the journal belonged to her. Alana cursed herself for not inquiring about it earlier: she should have known Abigail would be smart enough to document everything that was happening.

“Alana?” Jack picked up the phone on the second ring, but sounded surprised to hear from her. She supposed it was a good start that he’d answered at all: she couldn't remember whose turn it had been to call. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” a lie, but one he would have easily returned had she given him a chance, so she did not feel guilty. “I called to ask you about something I think they found at Hannibal's house, after...well, you know.” She paused as he grunted in acknowledgement. “A piece of evidence. A journal.”

“They seized a lot of journals,” Jack said blankly. “Most turned out to be filled with recipes or drawings.”

“This one wasn't, or at least, I don't think it was.” She paused. “I think Abigail might have kept a diary, Jack.”

She heard him exhale. “How did you find out about this?”

“Why are you _hiding_ it?” Her heart lurched; the pit of her stomach dropped. It took her another few seconds to find her voice around the muted panic rising in her throat, “What does it say?”

“I don't _know_ ,” Jack said. “I didn't read it. It wasn't exactly up to me.”

“But you were aware it existed.” She didn't care that he hadn't told her: she was used to that, by now. All that mattered was that he was willing to help her get it. “It was definitely Abigail's?”

“Apparently.” He didn't sound convinced. “But she'd spent half a year with him, Alana. God knows how he got inside her head. The girl that you think you knew...your _patient_ , she wasn't the same one who wrote in that journal-- I'll bet you that.”

His desire to brush it all off frustrated her. “But how do you know if you didn't _read_ it?”

“The same way _you_ know, you just don't want to admit it.” Jack sighed. “Listen, I'm sure it was read and analysed by someone more than qualified. Anything of note went on record. To revisit it now, months later, when there's nothing you can do-- well, I think you'll agree it's counter-productive.”

“As opposed to what you and Will are doing?” She hadn't wanted it to come to this, but she couldn't help it: even if there was nothing in Abigail's journal that was important to him, every word and each space in between was important to _her_. It was all she had left; all she would ever have. Inside it might be the explanation she was desperate for; inside it might be the closure she craved.

“We're doing our best,” he replied shortly. “Just trust me, alright?”

“The last time you told me to trust you, we almost died. Abigail _did_ die.” It was the first time since everything, to her recollection, that she had directed anything that amounted to blame toward Jack. It didn't make her feel any better, but that wasn't why she'd said it. “You'll excuse me if I don't have a lot of faith in 'your best,' anymore, Jack.”

There was silence, and she knew he was biting back a retort. She imagined his words could cut her deeper than hers could him. He had made difficult decisions because it was his job to navigate them out of the mess  _she_ had helped to tangle them up in. 

“I don't want to fight with you,” she said, after a few seconds of forced calm. “I just want to see the journal. Please, Jack. It's the closest I will _ever_ get to another conversation with her.” He stayed silent, and so she decided she had no choice but to play her trump card. “If it had been Miriam, wouldn't you have wanted to read it?”

“Damn right I would have,” he answered, never missing a beat. “And you would have advised against it every chance you had.”

The truth of this almost made her smile. “And you would have read it anyway.” When he didn't reply, again, she tried one last time. “The difference is, you can visit Miriam. You can bring her things and hold her and tell her that what happened was not her fault.” She shut her eyes, thinking of her last visit with Abigail: spray-painted 'KILLER' in bold red letters, Freddie Lounds lingering a few feet behind her with accusations that only reminded Alana how much she'd failed Abigail. Quietly, she said, “they write things on her grave, Jack. I don't even have _that_.”

There was silence, for a long moment, and Alana held her breath. Finally, Jack sighed. “I’ll put in a call. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” It was a tiny triumph, but one which had her mind buzzing with possibility. “ _Thank_ _you_.”

She received a snort as a reply. “I’ve been over it all a hundred times, Alana,” he said shortly. “The only thing it’ll do is give your nightmares. It’s torture, reliving it. You’re smarter than that.”

His words made her think of what Zeller had said the day before: _You know he always thought the world of you professionally._ She wished she could see herself the way Jack was still trying to.

* * *

She wasn’t expecting Will Graham to show up on her doorstep, hours later, a grey plastic bag marked ‘EVIDENCE’ in his hand. “Jack asked me to bring it over,” he said, by way of explanation, and then he was being swarmed with dogs.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the bag from him and pressing her palms against it, feeling the corners of a hard-backed notebook Inside. It was almost too real, too soon. “I thought it might take a few days.”

“He put in a call to Zeller and Price.” From his knees, he looked up at her with tired eyes. “I won’t insult you by telling you how much I don’t want you to read it.”

“Have _you_?” When he didn’t answer, head dropped guiltily in admission, she narrowed her eyes. “But I can't? What is there that you don’t want me to see?”

“It’s not the way you should remember her, that’s all.” His lifted his head. “Or are you implying that I had something to do with it, again?”

She hadn’t meant that, or at least not consciously. She’d laid that suspicion to rest, but not before she’d been tortured by it enough to voice it to him. Now, it was just another inch put between them, another thing neither one could take back. Another way she’d let him down.

“It can’t be worse than the last memory I have,” she countered. When she thought of Abigail, she thought tortured eyes and shaking hands that had pushed her; a broken “ _I’m so sorry,”_ and a blinding flash of pain.

She thought of the bloody corpse in the photograph, the open wound and the twisted mouth. To think of her in a time when she was alive, at the very least, and _not_ trying to kill her, surely had to be an improvement.

Will obviously didn’t have the energy to argue with her. He gave a shrug, and continued to make a fuss of each of the dogs in turn. “Have you taken them out yet?” he asked, when the silence grew a touch too awkward, even for them.

“This morning.” She knew what he was suggesting. “It was cold: we didn’t go far. They could do with a run, I think.”

He didn’t pretend not to take her hint, the simple barriers of conversation lost around the same time as their feelings for one another. “You wanna come?” was his attempt at courtesy-- perhaps it was even a peace-offering, but Alana wouldn't subject him, or herself, to that level of discomfort.

“I have some cleaning to do,” she said, and they both knew it was a lie. “You take them.”

“Alright.” He rose, the dogs beginning to bark at the prospect of him leaving. “Come on everybody,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips when he looked down and saw seven pairs of eyes fixed on him.

She watched them leave, Applesauce trailing behind with Trixie, and wondered how she had ever thought she might have fit into a scene she now felt so completely disengaged from.

* * *

When she arrived twenty minutes later, Margot took in the mess of papers on Alana’s coffee table with a look of repressed judgement. “What’s all this?”

Alana was suddenly self-conscious, and set about tidying up the table, stacking the pages and gathering them back together in the file, cheeks darkening as her hair fell around her ducked face. She knew she didn't have to justify it to Margot, and it wasn’t even like she was doing anything _wrong,_ but there was a difference between ignoring Jack and Will's reservations and devaluing the opinion Margot would offer. 

“It’s nothing,” she said, and when she glanced up to see Margot staring at her incredulously, she sighed. “It's just some paperwork from the bureau. I have to sign a few things and send it back.”

“And that?” Margot nodded toward the bag, still zip-locked shut, the journal within it untouched. Alana bristled, reaching for it, in case Margot would. The other woman eyed her darkly.

“Abigail Hobbs kept a diary,” she said simply.

“You’re going to read it?” Margot tilted her head. “Isn’t that a little... _intrusive_?”

Alana didn’t answer, going back to busying herself putting the files to one side. In truth, that had been her greatest concern too. How silly it seemed, the internal struggle over whether or not to breach the privacy of someone who had been dead for almost a year. “Jack thinks I’ll give myself nightmares.”

“Too late,” Margot said, and Alana looked up at her, questioning. “You make noises in your sleep.” She said this as though it were a minor, insignificant fact: something she’d barely given any thought to. “Sometimes, you cry out.”

“Do I?” The journal seemed heavier when she held it close this time. “I haven’t noticed.”

“Because you’re _asleep_ ,” Margot replied dryly, taking a step closer. A little more kindly, she added, “you don’t really say anything. You just moan, really."

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” For a split second, she’d thought that maybe Margot was making it up. But there was a sympathy in her eyes now, and if there was one thing Margot Verger didn’t offer it was unwarrented pity.

“I didn’t want to risk you becoming self-conscious about it.” Margot shrugged. “After all, it did take me long enough to get you into bed in the first place.” When Alana didn’t laugh, she continued, “What good would it be to tell you? Even you can’t stop yourself from dreaming, Alana.”

Before Alana could question the defensiveness of that ‘ _even you,’_ statement, Margot was asking her about the dogs.

“Will took them out,” Alana explained, not missing the way Margot's eyes narrowed. “He shouldn't be long. He won't be staying for dinner. We can go out, if you want-- my treat.” Slowly, her grip on the diary began to loosen. “I need to get away from all... _this._ ”

“Will Graham?” There was a pause; Margot took a step back. “Maybe I should go.”

“Why would you go?” Confusion was an understatement: Alana found herself blinking at Margot, trying to understand why she would be so quick to avoid someone she'd initially spoken about so positively. If Will had helped Hannibal with Mason-- at least in her eyes-- if she were _really_ grateful to him, why would his presence have her acting so uncharacteristically skittish?

“You've told him about me?” Margot's expression was one Alana couldn't read. There was something significant she wasn't telling her, and more than that, she was actively trying to hide the fact she hiding it. **  
**

“Not yet.” She wouldn't apologize for this either: she'd had quite enough of Will's interference with her personal life, even if it wasn't always intentional on his part. Besides, it was none of his business. As it stood, they were barely even friends: just two people with messy, intertwined pasts and too much shared resentment. Still, she thought of all she didn't know about Margot and Will's past and almost second-guessed herself. “Why? Do you want me to?”

Margot didn't look at her; her lips were tucked together tightly. “I'm curious as to what you to talk about.”

“What do you _think_ we talk about?” It came out more sarcastic than she intended, but it was a fair question nonetheless. “There's no room for small talk with all the crap that's happened between us. There's no chance of us talking about anything else but what happened and what's _still_ happening.”

“So Mason and I haven't come up at all?” Margot didn't seem to believe this, at least not fully, but Alana supposed Margot had not learned as harshly as she had how insignificant they all were in Hannibal and Will's grand scheme of things.

“I _told_ you,” Alana said, “they didn't tell me anything. They still don't. If it weren't for Freddie Lounds, I wouldn't even know you existed.”

She never thought she'd be grateful for Freddie's digging, and it might not have stopped Margot from contacting her, but at least it had allowed Alana some insight before she'd stepped into the Verger's complex world of abuse and power.

“You say _they_ ,” Margot noted, narrowing her eyes. “Why? Do you find Will and Hannibal indistinguishable?”

“I find some of the things they did indistinguishable,” Alana corrected. “As people, I can distinguish them just fine, despite their best efforts. Anyway, don't deflect. What reason would Will and I have to discuss you and your brother?”

“You _wouldn't_ , evidently.” Margot unfolded her arms. “I was simply curious. No need to be defensive.”

Before Alana could challenge the irony of the fact Margot was calling _her_ defensive, there was a knocking at her door, immediately followed by the sound of one of the dogs scratching at it and another two howling.

She made her way to the door without taking her eyes off of Margot, who was making a deliberate point of staring her out. When she finally turned away to unlock it, she didn't miss the resigned sigh Margot let out.

Will's cheeks were red from the cold, but there was a smile in his eyes that hadn't been there earlier. He was mid-laugh as the dogs barreled past her, and maybe he was going to make a joke or say something of similar sentiment, but then his eyes fell on Margot, behind her, and she watched almost everything about his demeanour change.

“Margot?” raw confusion, desperate blinking. His whole body had stiffened. When he looked to Alana, he frowned. “I didn't realize you two knew each other.”

Alana watched then, silent, as his eyes moved to the dogs, the way Applesauce was not put off by Margot's presence, the way Winston watched her curiously from his place at Will's feet, but did not bark. They were familiar with Margot now, some of them were even excited to see her, and Will could sense this but couldn't seem to _make_ sense of it.

“Now you know,” Margot said, and her voice was quiet, her eyes were fixed on Will's, just as his shifted to hers. For a moment, something passed between them, a look Alana didn't understand or recognize and probably never would, and for as long as it lasted, she felt like _she_ was the intruder; the one who was watching from the sidelines as a relationship that had already been formed seemed to visibly shift, albeit silently.

“Thanks again for taking them out,” Alana cut in, making sure they hadn't both forgotten her, and remembering how apprehensive Margot had been at the prospect of Will's presence. She stepped in front of Margot, her hand on the door, blocking Will's view. “I appreciate it.”

When he looked back to her, there was something vaguer in his eyes: like he was reconsidering her. “It's fine,” he said, and then he reached down to scratch Winston's ears one last time. “I guess I should go.”

Alana nodded, ducking her head through the awkward pause that followed. They had yet to craft a suitable goodbye for their circumstances.

“Take care?” Will tried, and then he swallowed hard. Louder, he added, “ _Both_ of you.”

Alana glanced over her shoulder at Margot, who was standing with her arms folded in front of Alana's fireplace, with the look of someone trapped somewhere between frustration and fear, and suddenly things were clicking into place where they hadn't before.

“You too,” Alana said to Will-- for no other reason than she thought she should say _something_ \-- and with a final shake of his head he was leaving, and she was feeling a disappointing realization wash over her as Winston followed him to the car. 

* * *

 

That night, as they lay naked together in her bed, she fingered Margot's scar and felt the same feeling again. “Can I ask you something?” Immediately, she Margot stiffened beneath her. Alana shifted, her fingers curling as she hitched herself up on her elbow. “You don't have to answer if you don't want to, obviously.”

Margot eyes were shut, but Alana knew she wasn't asleep, could tell by her uneven breathing and too-still eyelids. When Margot didn't answer, she leaned forward and placed a succession of gentle kisses to her neck, until there was a smile on her face betraying the allusion of sleep.

“Margot?” she prompted gently, earning a sigh and a half-hearted glare through focused eyes.

“What is it?”

Now that she had Margot engaged, she almost wished she didn't. What was she supposed to say? What were the perfect words? No matter how she phrased her next question, it was entirely up to Margot how much capacity it had for destruction.

Alana bit her lip, tasting dry blood from biting it mid-orgasm. It felt tender against her teeth, still. “I don’t want to upset you,” she said.

“Naturally.” Margot sounded indifferent to it all, but Alana knew better by now. “If you’re thinking it, you might as well say it.”

She’d half-expected Margot to urge her to keep it to herself, but then she supposed she must have been expecting this. Surely she didn’t think she could avoid this conversation forever?

“What happened before...what Mason did to you. It had something to do with Will Graham, didn’t it?” She paused, knowing her eyes must be full of a thousand other questions and not wanting to complicate things any more than they were already. “He was... _involved,_ in more ways than one, wasn’t he?”

To her credit, Margot did not falter even a little, confirming Alana’s suspicion that she’d been preparing for this. “I don't know what you mean.”

Alana wanted to be angry at her, wanted to be offended by the nerve of someone who would leave out such a crucial piece of information and then blatantly lie to her about it in her own bed. She wanted to check Margot off as another person she'd been wrong about.

Despite all of these intentions, no such feelings surfaced. Even when she blinked, she didn't see a liar when she looked at Margot: she saw someone who had grown accustomed to losing to the truth; who had learned it was safer to keep things to herself; who had reason to believe that honesty only ended in hurt.

Nothing inside of her flamed with the fire of a rage; nothing felt broken or hurt. Her feelings had not changed. Her skin still tingled at Margot's touch; her palms still itched for the sensation of Margot's pressed against them. There had been no thunderbolt of change; no immediate surge of betrayal that drowned her in the most powerful wave. She’d first had her suspicions when Mason alluded to Will's involvement with a different kind of chip on his shoulder than he had when he spoke about Hannibal. After that, the pieces had gradually fixed into place. Today had been the last clue she needed to finally put it all together.

“You don’t need to lie,” she said quietly. “I’d rather you just told me.”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Margot argued, voice dark with a kind of fierceness that was rare, even for her. “It was a secret. _You_ made the distinction.”

“It’s doesn’t matter what it was.” It didn’t, not really-- not to her. Once, it might have, but in a sea of all the deceit that passed her way in the last year, Margot’s omittance barely made a splash. “It just didn’t feel right, _suspecting,_ and not talking to you about it.”

Margot didn’t seem very grateful. “I would have told you eventually.”

Alana didn’t believe that, but dwelling on it would drive her crazy. She’d learned that with Margot, she simply had to take her chances and hope for the best. A reckless design, but one that was holding together strangely well all the same.

“Will didn’t know you wanted a baby?”

“His mind was on other things, I believe.” Margot was careful not to look at her. “We didn’t discuss it, no, if that’s what you’re asking. There were no feelings involved. We were both simply _there_.”

“But you did tell him?”

"At Dr. Lecter’s urging. He didn’t agree with my methods. His loyalty was split between us: I put him in a difficult position.” Margot spoke of this with only a hint of remorse, but to Alana it still seemed too much. For the few seconds she was able to put aside her resentments toward Hannibal, she was capable of admiring the fact he hadn’t used Margot’s pregnancy against Will, or as blackmail; that he had forced Margot to accept responsibility for her actions head on. Still, she did not see a doctor whose intentions toward his patient-- or his ‘friend’-- were even close to noble.

“Hannibal was there, when you told Will?” As if Alana needed another reason to question Hannibal and Will’s relationship: as if her new-found suspicions needed fuel.

“He mediated the discussion,” Margot admitted. “At my request, of course.” Alana couldn’t help but question this, like she now questioned everything that had come before. Had it really been at Margot's request, or had Hannibal just wanted her to think that?

“How did Mason find out?” Another thing that had been troubling her, because it had become the kind of conversation she’d had to replay many times in her mind just to make sense of it. Margot had said Mason had guessed her intentions, but she hadn’t said how. “About the pregnancy?”

“Who knows how my brother’s mind works?” Margot rolled her eyes, but the tension between them had grown thick. “You can’t possibly believe there was a rational thought process involved.”

‘Rational’ was certainly not a word she would use to describe Mason Verger _or_ his actions, but she didn’t see him as particularly intuitive either. Assuming Margot had only been a few weeks pregnant at the time, barely enough to cause even the earliest symptoms, how had he known? She was well aware how complex their dynamic was, but the extent of Mason's suspicions surely could not have extended as far as to accurately guess what was already a bizarre plan.

She thought of it all, a new jigsaw she was to make sense of, and her stomach felt heavy with dread: she already knew what the final picture looked like, but Margot didn’t. “Even for someone as paranoid as your brother, don’t you think it’s a leap? Assuming you’d never broached the subject with him before.”

“You’re asking if I told my brother than I planned to usurp him?”

Alana hesitated, trying to choose her next words carefully but knowing it was an impossible feat. “I’m asking if there’s the possibility that someone else might have.”

She waited for that to register, and Margot was sharp, so it only took seconds. “Dr. Lecter did _not_ tell my brother I was pregnant.” Her tone was unrelenting, direct, leaving no room for argument. Denial may have been a specialty of Margot’s, but Alana was adamant.

“Then who did?” When Margot inched away from her, Alana reached out to touch her shoulder. “He was your brother’s psychiatrist too,” she reminded Margot gently, knowing her eyes were full of a hundred apologies Margot would never receive: _I’m sorry you got caught up in this; I’m sorry you were hurt by anything they did or didn’t do; I’m sorry I have to tell you this._

A part of her thought it would have been kinder to quit while she was ahead. Was she really doing Margot a favor, opening her eyes like this? Was it really because Margot deserved the truth, or because Alana had been cut fresh by the crime scene report, the photographs, the journal and the very thought of anyone respecting Hannibal Lecter after all he had done felt like the greatest injustice?

In her haste not to protect Hannibal's reputation following the emotional fallout from Purnell's accusations, was she failing to protect Margot’s feelings?

“What would he gain from telling Mason? Why would he have betrayed me, only to paralyse my brother, later?” Alana couldn't blame Margot for her doubt: how venomously had _she_ rejected the warnings of those who’d tried to warn her?

“I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s exactly what he would have wanted you-- and Will-- to think.” She hated herself for doing this to Margot; more than that, she hated Hannibal for putting her in the position where she had to, even if there was no way he could have predicted this. Why had he needed to involve himself with Mason and Margot? Hadn’t he had enough pawns to play with? Hadn’t he ensnared enough people? Didn’t he have his claws into Will deeply enough?

She carefully chose not to analyze Will’s role in all of this, because for the sake of this conversation it was easier to direct the blame one way. She harbored it though, added it to the mental list of things she would one day confront him for. He should have known better; he should have done more to help Margot; he never should have slept with her. He should have determined exactly what Alana had within ten minutes of meeting her: she didn’t need a quick fuck; she didn’t need a baby; she didn’t even need her brother’s fucking money. She needed someone in her corner.

“Your assumption is based on the way things ended between you,” Margot argued. “You don't understand. You don't _know_ how he was with me.”

“No, but I do know that he seeks the upper hand, Margot,” Alana added gently. When she moved her hand to Margot’s cheek, the other woman snapped her head away.

“I’m going to leave now,” she said evenly, but there was an edge to her voice that had Alana’s heart thundering in her chest. “This conversation is over.”

“I know it isn’t what you want to hear,” Alana replied quickly, sitting up herself as Margot tossed the duvet cover back. “I know it goes against everything you thought you knew about him. Margot I _know_. I get it, I do. I know how hard it is to believe. But...he’s not the angel you think he is.”

“He’s not the devil _you_ think he is, either.” When Margot turned to her, her eyes were dark and fierce and accusing and Alana recognized it because _fuck it_ she’d felt exactly the same once. Dividing loyalties was Hannibal's forte: still, she would be damned if she would let Margot's misguided gratitude toward him come between them.

“I know he isn’t.” She didn’t want her feelings to cloud the way she looked at his treatment of Margot; she’d tried hard to avoid this, but she hadn’t known what there was to unearth. “I know he’s just a man who did some good things, but I also know he did a lot of bad.” She thought of the crime scene photographs, the close-ups of Abigail’s wounded corpse, the blood. She’d seen a hundred so similar, but objectivity was impossible when she thought of the times she’d stood in the space were Abigail had died, laughing with a beer in her hand at someone she trusted standing across from her; she couldn’t treat it like another case, because she had lived it, because she was _still_ living it. “I try sometimes, to see him as a patient, or just another killer I’ve been asked to profile. I try to think about the _why_ , instead of the what. I _try_ , Margot. I really fucking try.”

At some point during this, her voice had started to waver, and Margot had stopped getting re-dressed. She’d paused, blouse half-buttoned, her eyes watching Alana so carefully it was almost intimidating. Not intimidating enough to stop her though, now the floodgates on months worth of repressed devastation had been opened.

“But when you see him, covered in your friend’s blood-- and you don’t know if he’s killed him or not-- and he’s staring at you with a threat in his eyes,” she sniffed, “and when you hear his footsteps, echoing in your ears as he chases after you and then…” she shut her eyes, the image of Abigail’s face in her mind too much for words, too raw and real to be described, “--and when you’re lying in a pool of blood and everything _fucking_ hurts and it’s raining and he just steps over you like you’re nothing, like you _mean_ nothing... _that’s_ how I see him.” She opened her eyes again, now blurred by tears, to see Margot still staring. “Maybe you're right; maybe I am biased, but I can’t unsee him like that.”

Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised when Margot sat back down on the bed and pulled her into her arms, but she was. And Margot didn't really know how to hold people, wasn't sure what to do with her hands or how close to sit, but Alana didn't care because the offer was comfort enough, and it had been so long since anybody had reached for her and meant it. She moved closer, shifting her legs beneath her, as she buried her face against Margot's shoulder, the silk of her blouse a refreshing kind of cool against her warm cheeks.

She didn't know how long they sat like that, her hands snaking around Margot's waist to deepen the embrace, before she felt Margot's fingers trailing her bare arms, her voice soft as she murmured, “don't cry, don't cry,” into her hair.

“I'm sorry,” Alana said, voice muffled by the fabric of Margot's blouse. “I don't know where that came from.” She let out a shaky laugh, but her eyes filled with fresh tears and she broke off before she could finish.

“It came from wherever you had it all buried,” Margot's voice was quiet, but firm. “I don't ask questions because I thought you wouldn't want to talk about it-- but if you want to, you can.”

“I don't,” Alana insisted, wiping her eyes on the back of her free hand. “It takes up enough of my time just _thinking_ about it.” Even their relationship had been born from a mutual affiliation with Hannibal: there was not a piece of her life that had not been permeated, _stained,_ by her relationship with him.

“I cannot believe that Dr. Lecter had a hand in what Mason did,” Margot said, tone serious, and Alana took the hint and lifted her head to meet her eyes, “But I don't doubt that he hurt _you_.” She paused, her hand stroking Alana's hair back from her face, “Perhaps I underestimated how much.”

“I shouldn't have pushed you about Will.” It was the kind of reciprocated apology for which the actual words 'I'm sorry' were not necessary. “It's your business. I just-- I wanted you to know that it didn't change anything between us. I don't approve of the way you tricked him, but that doesn't mean he was innocent and it certainly doesn't justify what happened to you.”

“You don't care that I slept with him?”

“Why would I?” Alana gave a tiny smirk, in spite of herself. “You're sleeping with me now.” Margot raised an eyebrow and Alana rolled her eyes. “I learned a long time ago to expect nothing but the unpredictable from Will Graham. As for you... well, I had a really disappointed lecture planned in my head, but it will still be there in the morning.” When Margot didn't speak, Alana tugged at the hem of her blouse to get her attention. “If you're asking me if I'm jealous, the answer is no. You said you didn't have any feelings for him, and I believe you.”

“What about _your_ feelings for him?”

“Long buried.” She feigned deep thought. “Cremated, actually.” She turned to Margot. “Is that why you didn't tell me?”

Margot shook her head. She was too proud to admit an insecurity like that anyway, it was idiotic of her to think she'd get a straight response. “I was avoiding that lecture you mentioned, actually.”

Ten minutes later, Margot's clothes were back where they belonged-- on Alana's bedroom floor, mixed with her own, as they lay tangled up in each other, any earlier tension having vanished as quickly as Alana's tears when Margot brushed them away with her fingers and replaced them with kisses on her cheeks.

She was lost in the feel of Margot's bare skin against her own, familiar by now but still enough to have her shivering happily, the sensation of butterflies in her stomach and a hummingbird in her heart. She was so enamored with these simple feelings that she almost missed the fact Margot was talking.

She had been saying something about an annual ball, thrown by one of Mason's business associates, or at least that was what Alana had gathered. “Obviously, my brother can't attend this year,” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone. “Still. It would be a shame to waste the invitation.”

Alana had always thought herself quite adept at taking hints, and she was finding it easier and easier to read Margot. “Won't Mason mind you going in his place?”

“He can't _stop_ me,” Margot pointed out. “Besides, Cordell is actively encouraging it. He'll do anything to keep me away from the house for a few hours.”

“ _Cordell_?”

“Doemling.”

“First name terms?” Alana was dubious to say the least. She had no reason to distrust him, if anything he seemed to be conspiring _for_ them, but Margot's gut feeling felt more important than her own. Margot knew what to look for. “I thought you didn't trust him?”

“I _don't_ .” Margot's sigh was resigned. “Neither can I get rid of him. Better to have him thinking we're on the same side, is it not?” When Alana didn't answer, Margot continued, “I thought you _did_ trust him.”

“I don't know if I trust my ability to determine who I can trust.” Alana moved her head, so her chin pressed against Margot's stomach, and they were looking at each other. “Anyway. This party. You want to go?”

“I'm entitled to bring a plus-one.” She said this nonchalantly, as if the thought had only just occurred, but Alana had known that was what she'd been asking from the moment she'd mentioned it. “It might take your mind off... _things_.”

“It might.” It most likely wouldn't, and even if it did, for one night, she'd wind up feeling guiltier after. Still, Margot was averting her eyes again, her fingers stroking the tips of Alana's hair distractedly. Maybe it was the first time she'd asked someone out in years; maybe it was the first time, ever. Getting lost in each other was the least they deserved, after the months they'd spent lost alone. The night before, Alana had contemplated ending things: now, she looked at Margot, and the thought seemed so far away, like it hadn't even belonged to her. She thanked God she'd listened to her heart. 

“I'd love to,” Alana said, and she meant it. 

 


	17. i believe you fell so you would land next to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. This chapter was very important to me/was kind of the prompt for the entire fic, and I wanted to do it perfectly. I could have held onto it forever trying to make it all the things I wanted it to be, but I was frustrating my poor beta to no end and hurting my own confidence so I concede defeat. Just know that I hope you enjoy it (and please let me know if you do, it would mean an awful lot) and there will be more within the next few days.

The day of the Carlyle Charity ball was one of the longest of Margot's life. The hours passed like they were not passing at all, and she was not naive enough to think that it could be anything but dread which had her watching the clock so intensely. 

She tried to busy herself in an attempt to ground her thoughts somewhere else, but her oldest distraction-- the horses-- no longer seemed to have the same hold it once had. She blamed Alana for this, because either she was taking in the other woman’s inability to put aside her feelings or Alana was simply too pretty a distraction that no other could possibly compare. Margot blamed her, wholeheartedly, but with nothing that even resembled resentment. 

What she did resent was the invitation in the top drawer of her bedroom dresser: the gold cursive of a pre-printed signature, ‘Mason Verger & Guest’ in bold. A week ago, it had seemed a brilliant idea, an opportunity to mingle with business associates she was usually hidden from, to make a name for herself with people who had been told for years to write her off. It was an chance to gain control that she’d never had before, always attending these things because her father or brother forced her to or not attending at all. The fact that she’d always loathed those nights was easily overshadowed by the hope that this time it would be  _ different.  _

Dr. Heimlich had warned her against placing so much emphasis on the night. 

“ Perhaps it would be a better use of your time to just  _ enjoy  _ yourself,” he’d suggested, voice tight with the repression of someone who wanted to bring up the fact she’d missed their previous two sessions but knew better. 

“ I plan to,” she had said, full of determination, but now that it was hours away, she felt embarrassingly underprepared. She couldn’t help but consider the possibility that it was a missed opportunity she might once had prepared a plan for had she not been so preoccupied with Alana. 

“ I'll have a car collect and drop you off,” Doemling told her that afternoon, while he gathered together what books she had not torn apart from the library for storage. “You'll have your credit card, in case of an emergency, won't you?”

She wondered how he had gone from quivering in her presence to making travel arrangements for her to go to a party she was not technically invited to. He was growing remarkably comfortable in  _ her _ home in her absence, and Margot was quickly realizing that was another oversight on her part. 

“ Actually, my card's expired,” she lied, and then she took the one he slipped out of his own wallet without even a hint of guilt. The only thing worse than asking her brother for money was having to ask his pathetic physician, regardless of the contrast between their willingness.

“ Shall I send a car for Dr. Bloom, too?” Doemling asked next. 

She felt herself stiffen. “I'd rather she came in my car.”

Doemling didn't question this, but in her mind, Margot did. How was it that she trusted him with her livelihood, her only financial means, but not Alana? Just  two months ago the former had been her only concern. Her priorities had shifted so suddenly, without her notice: it was yet another uncomfortable realization, and it added to her apprehension about the night ahead. 

Alana phoned while she was doing her hair. “What colour is your blouse?” she asked with a defeated sigh. “I can't pick a dress.”

“ We're color coordinating?” Once, she would have been repulsed by the idea, and she made a point of ensuring her tone betrayed this. Deep down, however, she found it more amusing than anything else. “Why do you assume I'm not wearing a dress too?”

Even as she said this, she was admiring the way her trousers fit in the bedroom mirror, eyes slipping to the new white blazer hung on her closet door, it's black trim around the collar and the cuffs. She might have been unable to shake the sense that tonight was nothing more than a pathetic game of feigning professionalism on her part, but she was determined no one else would be able to sense she was pretending.

“ Because you're gay, and lesbians are physically incapable of showing ankle.” Alana had her smiling without intending too, and Margot knew that was just another sign that she was in too deep but she filed away that concern for another time. “I  _ assume  _ because you're  _ you,  _ and you know how fantastic you look in suits, and if there were ever a time for you exploit that it would be tonight.” A pause, and then, “am I wrong?”

“ Black top, white blazer.” Margot was too torn  between unsettled and smug that Alana made such accurate judgements about her to argue.  “Heels.”

Alana hummed her approval. “Black heels? I have a white pair I'll never wear.” As an afterthought, she added, “I went through a compulsive online shopping phase.”

“ Haven't we all?” Margot didn't think she'd ever really transitioned from that phase. Oddly, it was  easier to hide deliveries than it was shopping bags. “What are you wearing?”

She listened for five unenthusiastic minutes as Alana described every black dress she owned, before realizing Margot was painfully apathetic to the whole thing. “Never mind,” she said indignantly, “you'll just have to be surprised. What time do you want me to come over?”

She thought of her conversation with Cordell and watched herself fixed her sleeves in the mirror, cell phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. “I'll come to you.”

“ Are you sure? I just need to change, I won't take  _ that  _ long.”

“ I’m sure.” 

An hour later, Alana answered the door to her in a black dress that seemed to have been made for her figure, make-up done and curled hair clipped to the side. “Don't sit down,” she warned, as she let Margot in, “there's dog hair everywhere.”

One of the dogs-- Buster, Margot thought, although they all looked vaguely the same to her, and there were really too many for their names to be important-- was asleep on the couch. Upstairs, she heard nails on the wooden floors and imagined some of the others were chasing each other.

Margot watched her put on her earrings in the hallway mirror. Alana met her eyes and smiled. “You look wonderful, by the way: very professional.” 

Margot tried not to take this as condescending, despite the fact defensiveness was just bubbling inside her. “Thank you.” 

“ I may be slightly bias, of course,” Alana said. “But I’d invest in  _ anything _ if you were selling it.” 

Tonight wasn’t about investment. It wasn’t even about the business. It was about proving herself among people she’d never dreamed she’d ever want to impress. 

“ Is that so?” Margot pretended to check her bag, then looked up to find Alana had turned to stare at her. “Are you ready?” 

Alana’s hand on her arm came as no shock, but she flinched away nonetheless. She didn’t want physical comfort: she wanted tonight to run smoothly.

Alana was as difficult to deter now as she had been at any other given moment during the course of their time together. “Tell me you want to go tonight,” she said, and Margot wished she could hate her concern, her  _ doubt _ . 

“ _ I  _ invited  _ you _ ,” Margot reminded her, unblinking. “Why would you think I wouldn't want to go?”

“ Because you look as enthusiastic as you sounded on the phone.” Alana’s expression softened. She tugged on the sleeve of Margot’s blazer. “We can stay home. It’s one night, Margot. There will be other parties, won’t there?” 

“ We’re going to  _ this  _ one,” Margot argued. “Unless of course you’ve changed your mind.” 

Hurt only flickered across Alana’s face for as long as it took for Margot to realize she wasn’t being fair, but it was long enough to make her feel worse. This was what she  _ hadn’t _ wanted: to have enough power over someone to be able to cut them with just her words. 

She still wasn’t entirely over their last argument: she’d felt ambushed by Alana’s questions about Will, about Hannibal’s involvement in Mason’s ending of her pregnancy. She had felt as if Alana had sliced her open and left her to bleed for the sake of making a point that Hannibal Lecter was not someone to be admired. 

When Alana had started to cry, her anger did not dissolve-- it shifted, so that she was angry at herself instead. She didn’t want to make Alana cry, not  _ ever _ , and especially not over what had happened before; over something that she’d shed more than enough tears about already. 

“ I didn’t mean that,” Margot said, sighing, defeated by the thought of this escalating too. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just  _ go _ .” 

Alana frowned, but she didn't step back. “Do you regret inviting me?”

“ Of course not.” She didn’t: not really. Right now, Alana’s worry was counter-productive and negative and so  _ not  _ the vote of confidence Margot craved, but she knew later, in a room full of people who had looked over her for years, she would be glad of Alana’s support-- however strange it was to acknowledge. Margot took the other earring from the hall table and placed it in Alana’s palm. “We’re going. I’m  _ fine _ .”

She expected the car ride to be silent, awkward, uncomfortable and for the first five minutes, it  _ was _ . Until the driver stopped at a red light, and Margot felt Alana’s warm hand slip into her own, fingers threading together almost of their own violation, followed by a soft squeeze of apology. Margot turned to her, and Alana shifted closer, head ducked so she could rest it against Margot’s shoulder. 

“ Tell me what you want me to do,” she said quietly. “Tell me how I can help you deal with tonight.” 

In truth, she'd been envisioning Mason's business associates taking Alana more seriously than her, but that was hardly Alana's fault. 

“ You don’t have to do anything,” Margot said. “Just…” 

“...be there?” Alana offered, turning her head to look at Margot. 

Margot nodded, her mouth dry  but her insides warm because for once, someone understood; for once, someone knew exactly what she needed. 

“ Alright,” Alana turned away again, her thumb running along the top of one of Margot’s fingernails and back again. “Anything else I should know?” 

“ Not particularly.” It was impossible to determine what information Alana would find relevant or not, especially given her  understated reaction about Will’s hand in her pregnancy. “ The whole thing will probably be horribly mundane.” 

Alana gave a small laugh. “Mundane is a nice change, actually.” 

 

* * *

It was a charity ball-- at least in a name-- and so Cordell had sent them with a cheque signed in her brother’s name (but not by him, obviously) and a promise to give the hosts Mason’s sincerest apologies.

Richmond Carlyle owned a chain of esteemed F rench restaurants and bars. He had been a friend of Papa’s, which seemed to have automatically made him a friend of Mason’s, despite the fact Margot believed he secretly resented his Verger connections. Somewhere along the way, in the earlier stages of his business, Papa had invested in Mr. Carlyle, and since then, they had been invited to these parties ritualistically. Dolores Carlyle ran a card-making company from her conservatory now that their only son was tucked away in an Ivy league college on the  West Coast.  The year Papa had died, they had stopped receiving Christmas cards from the Carlyle’s, and Margot was under no illusion that it was the decision of anyone but Mrs. Carlyle. 

“ It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Outside the entrance to the hotel, Alana had paused to admire the restored building. “Do they always hold these things here?”

“ Not always.” It was the first year Margot had attended that it was not held at the Carlyle home. It was possible they no longer even lived in the house she recalled spending countless nights roaming as a child, as a teenager-- even now, she could remember the hiding places with her eyes closed. Shivering, she nodded toward the hotel. “It’s freezing. Come on.” 

When their coats had been taken and glasses of champagne offered and accepted, Alana slipped her arm through Margot’s wordlessly: a small gesture that did little to ease Margot’s discomfort as they approached the Carlyle’s obligatory greeting point, but it was an appreciated attempt all the same. 

The couple in front of them finished laughing at whatever Mr. Carlyle had said, moving away, towards the main room, clinking their glasses together in a teasing toast. Mr and Mrs Carlyle’s eyes fell on Margot at the same time: both very different pictures of horror.

“ Ms. Verger!” Richmond recovered before his wife, and he held his hand out for Margot to shake, instead of clutching it in his own like she expected, or kissing it like she had dreaded. “I barely recognized you-- but then, I suppose it has been a long time-- hasn’t it, dear?” He turned to his wife, who had paled as she took a long sip of her drink.  


“ It certainly has.” Margot’s memories of attending the Carlyle’s parties with her father and brother were foggy when it came to Richmond, but her recollections of Dolores were crisp and clear, and it was obvious the latter was reciprocated. It had been years, but Dolores remembered her all too well. “We weren’t expecting you to come,” the woman said, her tone formal in a perfectly hostile way. 

This did not go unnoticed by her husband. Margot watched as his gaze flickered from his wife back to her, a question shining in his eyes. “Dolores means, considering what happened your brother,” he added, before forcing another welcoming smile. Evidently he was not much troubled by Mason’s misfortune either. “Still! We are delighted to have you here.” His eyes fell on Alana, and he hesitated, but his smile did not waver, “And your friend?”

Margot turned to Alana, pausing only because she hated when others introduced her and it felt horribly unbalanced for  _ her  _ to be introducing _ Dr.  _ Alana Bloom. Alana seemed unfazed, however, and returned her doubt with a cocked eyebrow: a, ‘ _ what are you waiting for? _ ’  that just might have been intended to throw her off completely. 

“ This is my date for tonight,” Margot said finally, and the words felt strange, too heavy, in her mouth. “Dr. Alana Bloom.”

Dolores looked to her husband, a little desperately, passing her glass from one hand to another as she waited for him to salvage the situation. Mr Carlyle looked at Margot for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he turned to Alana and held out his hand.

“ It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Bloom.” While Richmond and Alana measured each other-- quiet small-talk about the weather and the charity-- Margot was focused on Dolores. The woman was obviously agitated by her presence: Margot wondered how on earth she ever managed to deal with Mason. More than that, she wondered what Dolores  _ felt,  _ seeing her for the first time since Papa’s funeral. Then, Mr. Carlyle was speaking again, “Anything either of you need tonight, please do not hesitate to let us know.” 

“ Perhaps we can catch up later,” Margot said, her eyes on Dolores as she tucked her hair behind her ear, Alana’s eyes on  _ her _ . “As you said, it has been  _ such  _ a long time.” 

“ Indeed. It is marvellous to see you looking so well. Pass my regards to your brother, won’t you?” Richmond smiled again, wider and sincere and Margot didn’t know how he remembered her but it was obviously much differently than how his wife did. “Do come find me in a little while, Margot.”

“ I’ll be sure to.” Margot glanced at the trail of people behind them, waiting for their moment of fondling with the hosts. “We’ll let you get on.”

She knew Dolores was staring as she led Alana away. 

“ Should I ask?” Alana said, turning to her when they were out of earshot.  


“ _ Elaborate _ ,” Margot prompted, watching the Carlyle’s still, over Alana’s shoulder.  


“ The hostess? Not your biggest fan.” Alana paused, raising an eyebrow. “Did you sleep with her?” 

Margot snorted and took another drink. “She’s old enough to be my mother! Well, almost.” Dolores was younger than Richmond, yes, but she was no longer the delicate, dissatisfied trophy wife that Margot remembered.  


“ Then  _ what _ ?” When Margot didn’t answer, Alana narrowed her eyes. “If you invite me to a party you arrive at with an agenda, you could at least have the courtesy to enlighten me as to what that agenda  _ is _ .” 

“ My agenda was to take your mind off everything, remember? And look, I’ve been successful.” Margot gave a small shrug and swapped her now empty glass with a fresh one on the tray of a passing-by caterer. “You can thank me later.”

Alana sighed, the heat behind her glare dimming. “When was the last time you came to one of these things, anyway?”  


Her eyes were on a laughing Dolores as she answered, “A lifetime ago,” Margot said, and it was not a lie. 

* * *

_ She could not remember the first ball, although of course it was possible that one of her many memories could have come from it. She must have been eight or so when it all began, and Papa would take her and Mason with him, because he no longer had a wife to show off to the others. _

_ They never wanted to go-- not even Mason at that age-- and the exact reasons were lost now, but Margot imagined it had something to do with the fact there were never any other children there.  _

_ Not that they would have interacted with any other children, but there was something to be said about safety in numbers.  _

_ They would arrive, and it would only be moments before Papa would disappear. On a few occasions, they had tried searching for him, but there were so many tall men in suits and the Carlyle’s home was so big, the layout foreign to their tiny minds for those first few years. The only time Margot could ever recall holding her brother’s hand willingly was when they were lost among the crowd of strange strangers in a room too loud, and Mason was calling for Papa and Margot’s heart was thundering in her chest because she’d always wanted to be lost, to disappear, but this wasn’t how she’d thought it would feel at all. _

_ He never apologized for leaving them, even if they were visibly worked up, but then Papa never apologized for anything. He would call them silly for wandering off. He would make a joke of it to the other adults, saying it was a game they played all the time-- running off-- and they would all laugh until Margot’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Just children being children,” he would say, and Margot’s relief at finding him would shrink away each and every time; she would wonder if instead of it being a careless act by a half-drunk man, he’d been intentionally trying to lose them.  _

_ As they got older, Mason learned to follow Papa, and gradually Papa came to allow this, until it was just Margot, standing alone at these things. She would count the ceiling tiles and sneak alcohol and ignore the men who leered after her. Once, a man older than Papa had grabbed her arm, his eyes on her flat-chest, and he’d smirked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. She’d broke away with strength she didn’t know she had and hid outside, waiting by the car for Papa and Mason, shivering and kicking stones until her shoes were ruined.  _

_ She hadn’t told Papa about it, but someone else had. He’d slapped her ice cold cheeks, right there in front of the Carlyle house, and told her she was ungrateful. “You don’t deserve the attention,” he told her, and for much longer than her pride would allow her to measure, she had believed him.  _

_ Mr. Carlyle had married Dolores when Margot was fourteen. She couldn’t remember much about the wedding or the reception, beyond the fact that at some point during the latter she had found herself in the back of the Mercedes of a boy whose name she did not know. He hadn’t forced her, but in hindsight she doubted her participation in it had really counted as consent, either.  _

_ After, she cleaned herself up in the ladies’ bathroom of the hotel where the reception was held, and listened to Dolores cry in the stall beside her. Even then, Margot hadn’t thought Mr Carlyle was a horrible man, just a boring one. She didn’t feel sorry for Dolores, any more than she felt sorry for herself, but she wondered how many brides spent the night of the ‘happiest day of their life’ crying in bathroom stalls; she wondered how many girls lost their virginity in expensive cars to faceless boys under the illusion that they were one of the lucky ones.  _

_ She met Judy when she was nineteen, and for the next four years they saw each other in secret, taking it in turns to blow hot-and-cold as if it were a competition. Sometimes, Judy would go weeks without calling, as if to see if Margot cared enough to drive out to her parents house in the dead of night just to hear her voice; sometimes, Margot would be the one to disengage, to drop the line of communication abruptly and without explanation-- and it was may not have been without valid reason but Judy did not know that, and so it might as well have been.  _

_ It was easier to play each other than it was to understand each other, and with age and experience and distance Margot could see that now. Judy came out to her parents the summer before her final year of college, and she’d cried when she’d relayed the details to Margot in the days that followed.  
_ “ _ Mom said she’d always known; Daddy seemed relieved, actually.” She’s squeezed Margot’s hand then. “They want to meet you,” Judy had said, and that was the moment Margot knew she would have to be the one to end things.  _

_ Judy picked her up one day and drove out there spontaneously, brushing off Margot’s protests as low self-esteem. “Don’t worry, they’ll love you,” she’d said as they pulled into the drive:  _ Famous Last Words. 

_ Her mother had come to the door to greet them in a chequered apron, kissed both of Margot’s cheeks as if she’d known her her entire life, and seemed surprised and offended when Margot flinched away from her touch.  _

_ Judy’s father asked her a thousand questions about her family, not one of which she intended to answer, and when she said said exactly this, his suspicions manifested in verbal hostility.  _

_ Judy’s younger sister played the violin, and when she took it out to play, Margot could not resist correcting her when she continuously confused the notes. The child was sensitive, although no one told Margot this of course, and when she burst into tears Judy’s mother asked her to leave.  _

_ Judy was furious. “One night, Margot. One fucking night.” There had been angry tears in Judy's eyes as she slammed the car door. “Fuck you. Why couldn’t you just  _ try?” 

_ Three days without contact, and then Judy called her. “We’re going to try that again,” she said tersely, and Margot had no intention of such a thing but she let Judy believe she did because it was kinder than the truth.  _

_ Her excuse came in the form of the annual Carlyle ball. “I tried to get out of it,” she lied, her fingers curling around the phone wires. “I’m sorry.”  _

_ Judy gave her an ultimatum: come to her parents house, or they were finished. Margot barely even registered it as a threat, she was so accustomed to it’s use.  _

_ Mason heard her on the phone that night, and, assuming it was a boyfriend, burned her upper arms with the end of his cigarette. The marks were much too visible for a sleeveless dress, and so Papa beat him until breathing was painful, and then he gave Margot a shawl that belonged to her mother and told her not to take it off under any circumstances. _

_ Dolores greeted them at the door, her arms around Papa’s neck in a heartbeat, and it was not the first time she’d thrown a party despite her husband’s absence on a business trip, but it was the first time Margot had noticed Papa's hands wandering further down her back when they embraced each other.  _

_ She caught Mason staring as he pushed his way into the conversation.  _

“ _ You  _ do  _ look like your father!” Dolores said to Mason, and then she turned to Margot with a bright smile. “And you! You look beautiful: hasn’t your hair grown! You so suit it long, Margot.”  _

_ Her friendliness did not seem false, but it was not natural either. She was bubbly from alcohol intake, anxious from the fact she was engaging in what Margot now realized was an affair. Her hand remained on Papa’s arm as she spoke, and they were not inside four minutes when she allowed him to lead her away.  _

_ Margot watched them leave. “Did you know?” she asked her brother, as he picked at the appetizers they had been offered. _

“ _ Of course.” He snorted, wincing as the sharp intake of breath caused his ribs to ache. “Papa tells me  _ everything.”

_ It didn’t seem like the kind of thing to be proud of. Margot wondered why the fact he had cheated on one of his oldest business associates left her feeling so repulsed, considering all the ways he had betrayed his own children.  _

_ She left Mason mingling with much older men who were too drunk to realize how immature he was, to notice how pathetically hard he tried to fit in. Outside, she let the cold wind sting her cheeks and thought about calling Judy.  _

_ She could say she was sorry: that she hadn’t meant to distance herself, but that her family were dangerous, and all she really wanted was to protect her. But then she thought of the way Judy had said “I love you,” to her, like it was not a commitment loaded with expectations that Margot knew she could never fulfil; she thought about, obsessed over really, the fact she made no effort to return the sentiment.  _

_ Love was a four-letter word, as taboo as all the other four letter words people in her  civilized  circles avoided. It didn’t mean anything to her. If she’d ever felt it, then certainly it must be underwhelming, disappointing, because she could not distinguish it from her other feelings.  _

_ She called Judy from the Carlyle home phone and asked her not to contact her again. Judy’s tone changed from anger to hurt, and then she was angry again, but Margot hung up before she could hear all of the insults she knew she deserved.  _

_ She supposed Mason had eavesdropped on that conversation too, and somewhere during the course of it it must have become apparent that it was not a man she was talking to.  _

_ A half hour later, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her until her shoulder hurt at the socket, earning stares of others in the room. “We’re leaving,” he said, clicking his tongue, and when they were alone in the hallway, he smirked. “Papa’s very upset with you, Margot. You’ve ruined his night.”  _

_ Upset was an understatement. Papa grabbed her by the hair and thrust her against the car as the shawl fell from her shoulders, fist tightening and tugging when she whimpered in surprise-- not expecting it then; not expecting it  _ there _ . The alcohol and the drum of the terrible music and the embarrassment had her mind racing so quickly it took her a moment to realize Dolores was standing a few feet away, pleading in a high pitch, reaching for the hem of Papa’s suit jacket. _

_ And it was slow motion after that. Margot could not recall what exactly Dolores had said-- she was trying to defend Margot, perhaps, or maybe she simply didn’t want the family domestic to take place on her property. It didn’t matter, because right then, Papa let go of Margot and swung for Dolores instead. _

_ She fell back while Margot got her bearings, and Mason was silent, watching with small, wide eyes from the doorstep. Papa grabbed Dolores by the arms, his thumbs pressing deep enough to leave marks and shook her until she was crying harder, until her sobs stopped making sense. “Don’t you  _ dare,”  _ he hissed. “ _ That _ ,” he said, jamming a finger drunkenly in Margot’s direction, “is mine. Nothing to do with you. Do you understand? You stay the fuck out of it.”  _

_ He threw Margot into the car with force, and she met Dolores’ eyes as Papa started the car, watched through the window as the older woman touched her lip and then stared at the blood on her fingers as if she were still trying to piece together what happened.  _ I’m sorry,  _ Margot thought, but she was too afraid to mouth it, and she’d wondered if perhaps Dolores felt the same way.  _

_ She thought they would die that night, in that car. Papa was too drunk to be driving, and he was reckless when angry at the best of times, but neither she nor Mason offered to take over. Her hands shook as she envisioned their car wrapped around a tree, or smashed into a van, or spinning until it caught fire. For the longest time, she thought that that was exactly what Papa was intending.  _

_ Eventually, she closed her eyes and rested her head back against her seat in an effort to still her breathing, to calm her frantic heartbeat. She thought about what it would look like the following day when the car wreck was found: a doting single father bringing his children home on a dark road. Would they attribute all her bruises to the accident, or would they dig deeper? Would everyone finally see her sorry-excuse for a family for all it really was?  _

_ She wondered if Dolores would feel guilty. She wondered if Judy would come to her funeral, if she would even care. By the time she heard the engine stop, Mason unbuckling his seat belt, she felt so bitterly   _ disappointed  _ she thought she might actually cry. Dying would have been a welcome reprieve, for all of them. Dying didn’t terrify her nearly as much as living did.  _

_ Papa dunked her head in one of the animals water tanks and held her underneath for as long as it took for her to break a nail from clutching the sides so fiercely. Then, he got back into his car and left her to find her own way back to the house in the dark. She spent the night in the stables, shivering; she fell asleep under a saddle shelf, wondering how long it would take to die of hypothermia. _

_ How Dolores explained her injuries to her husband, to her other guests, Margot still did not know. She only knew that after that, Papa had stopped taking her to parties, and when she saw Dolores again, years later at Papa’s funeral, her eyes were dark underneath from smudged mascara and-- just like tonight-- she couldn’t quite meet Margot’s eyes.  _

* * *

It didn’t take long for boredom to kick in. It was the same crowd Margot remembered: new faces but no new names, each generation more corrupt than that before, indistinguishable but for the pattern of their ties and the wives on their arms. Alana stayed close to her, was polite but quiet, and Margot knew she was  _ conforming  _ for her, and it only added to her frustrations because she never should have subjected  _ Alana  _ to this, either.

All any of the business associates that she  _ did  _ know wanted to talk about was Mason. “How is your dear brother?” they asked, or, “I hope he can make the next function,” or, her personal favourite, “It’s so admirable how he still manages to run the company, isn’t it? But then, he has no choice--  _ you  _ are his only other family, aren’t you? Your father would be so very proud of that boy.” 

“ Are you sure they’re thinking of the same Mason that we are?” Alana asked her, after tugging her into a corner before Margot could say something she’d regret.  


“ My brother can put on a remarkable act when he wants to.” She had the feeling they were being watched, and when she turned, she saw Dolores Carlyle staring. “And these people can be remarkably ignorant.” 

“ She’s been watching us all night,” Alana commented, following Margot’s line of vision. “Well, watching  _ you _ .” 

“ _ Most  _ people have been staring at us,” Margot reasoned, but she knew it was lost on Alana, whose eyes had narrowed on Dolores. Still, Margot was not exaggerating: showing up with another woman had earned more attention than she’d intended. 

What was more surprising was that Alana didn’t seem to care. By now, Margot was beginning to suspect that there was more to Alana’s quietness than the courtesy of letting Margot do the talking: they had spent the previous night apart, and Margot wondered if Alana had utilized the privacy to read the diary of the Hobbs girl; if she’d slept at all, or stayed up torturing herself with all the things she could have done differently.

Before she could ask, Dolores said goodbye to her friend and made her way toward them. They turned to each other, in an effort to disguise the fact they’d been staring. 

“ Do you want me to--” before Alana could finish, Dolores was standing between them, her shoulders pushed back, her head held high. She looked at Margot like she was something that crawled in off the street. 

“ Richmond sends his apologies. He’s been tied up with some of the men in the conference room. You know how they are: can’t set business aside, even for charity.” She said all of this, even the last part, in a flat tone with an equally stoney expression on her face. 

“ Shame,” Margot commented equally as lamely. “Still, there’s always next time.” 

Dolores’ smile was tight-lipped and forced. “Perhaps.” 

“ I hope you’re not  _ concerned  _ about what I might say to him,” Margot said, taking a sip from her glass: wine now, but  _ God  _ did she need something stronger. “I have an abundance of practice in keeping secrets. We’re alike in that way, you and I.” 

Dolores stiffened, and then her smile was replaced with a wider, falser one as she looked at Alana, uncomfortable and desperately hoping to hide it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling!” To Alana, she added, “Margot always did have such a funny imagination, or at least so her father told me.”

She left without excusing herself, quickly latching onto a group of older women as they passed by, and Margot’s cheeks were burning with the implications of what she’d just suggested. 

“ What a  _ witch _ ,” Alana said, but Margot barely heard her over the roar of the flames in her mind. “Are you okay?” 

“ I think I need some air.” She glanced around for the nearest exit, finding one to the left of the beverage table. Before she could make a move for it, Alana was stepping closer, taking Margot’s empty glass from her hands.

“ _ Go _ . I’ll get you another drink.” 

If it did not mean another moment trapped in that horrible ballroom, Margot would have kissed Alana for being so accommodating. As it stood, she simply nodded and took off as briskly as she could manage in  six inch  heels. 

* * *

Eight minutes later, Alana joined her outside, two glasses of champagne in her hands. Margot took one from her, downed it and only then thought to wonder what they were celebrating.

“ Are you going to tell me?” Alana asked. 

“ Make an educated guess.”

Alana sighed and thought for a minute. “She had some association with Mason or your father that she doesn’t want her husband to know about. She was trying to minimise what happened to you, to de-validate it, because then she can shirk the responsibility for being privy to it.” Alana looked up. “How am I doing?”  


“ You should be a psychiatrist,” Margot said flatly. “Or a profiler. There’s good money in that, I hear.” 

“ We should have had a codeword,” Alana said, with obvious regret, neatly side-stepping Margot’s attempt at humour. “We should have known that  _ something  _ tonight would be uncomfortable.” 

“ It’s not like you’ve been to one of these things before.”  _ She  _ should have known though. She might have changed, but the people here had not, and they never would. 

Alana’s laugh wasn’t forced, but it wasn’t all there either. She pressed her shoulder against Margot’s and handed her  _ her  _ glass of champagne too. “Not quite, but I do know what it’s like to be stuck with obnoxiously arrogant company. You forget I used to go to Hannibal’s dinner parties. Some of his guests would rival even the lovely Ms Carlyle.” 

Margot drank the second glass of champagne and then she held them both in her hands, empty, and envisioned smashing them. “I imagine someone like you would fit in perfectly.” In truth, Margot was no longer comfortable talking about Hannibal, or anything to do with him, with Alana. The last time they had, she’d watched Alana fall apart in front of her. 

“ Someone like me?” Alana didn’t seem offended: just curious.  


“ _ Look  _ at you,” Margot said, any bitterness dying on her tongue in place of the tenderness born from meeting Alana’s eyes as the moonlight brought out a sparkle there. “ _ Look _ at  _ you _ .” 

They stared at each other for a long moment, two pieces of a jigsaw that almost fit together but not quite, and Margot wanted to reach out, wanted to pull Alana into her arms, but her hands were full of empty champagne glasses and her pride wouldn’t let her. 

“ I always feel like I’m pretending at these things,” Alana admitted, looking down at herself, breaking the spell. “I feel like I’m playing the part of someone who isn’t really me. It’s like I’m the person I’m supposed to be, the person I thought I would be, but not the person I am. Does that make sense?” 

“ I’ve heard stranger things.” She knew this was going somewhere with or without her participation: Alana rarely said things without thought for the direction she could take them. She was methodical like that. 

“ I never understood it. It didn’t make sense that I felt disconnected from the life I thought I wanted. I thought something was missing, and then I started to think that that something might be Will Graham or Hannibal Lecter, but it wasn’t, and it’s taken me a long time and a lot of crying to realize that it was  _ me _ .” Alana took one of the glasses from Margot, and as their fingers brushed together Margot wondered how it could be that she automatically felt a little lighter. “ _ I _ was missing, if that makes sense. I was there but I wasn’t, for one reason or another. Have you ever felt like that, Margot?” 

Alana already knew the answer: she probably connected the way she’d behaved inside with the way she’d burst out; more than that, she recognized the look in Margot’s eyes. She knew how it felt to feel lost in the only place you’d ever been convinced you belonged.  


“ My first real relationship...my first real  _ anything _ ,” Margot said, and Alana looked at her for a second before looking away, conscious of the fact this was not the kind of thing that she spoke about easily, if at all. “She loved me, I think, or she was close to it. At the time, the only thing that made sense was to run away with her.” 

She was telling Alana this because she felt detached from it: something that had once been so raw, in hindsight, could have happened to someone else for all it meant to her now. She wondered if someday, she would talk about Alana to someone else and feel the very same way. It seemed unimaginable.

“ Did you?” When Alana turned to her with this question, Margot raised an eyebrow:  _ obviously not.  _

“ No.” Before Alana could ask her why, she sighed. “I didn’t leave with or  _ for _ her, and I’ve thought about  _ why  _ I didn’t a lot since then. I never understood it, not really-- not until I met you.” 

At the time, she’d wanted to believe Judy’s promises to always be there for her. She had wanted to close her eyes when they kissed and not see all the ways Papa and Mason could destroy it all if she got too attached; she had wanted to sleep with her and  _ stay the night  _ because she didn’t have to worry about getting home before her father and brother woke, for fear of what they would do if they found out what she was up to. 

She had wanted to love Judy: she’d even  _ tried _ . 

But they had been twenty-two and twenty-three, and Judy’s life had been college dissertations and saving money to travel and calling home every Sunday to talk to her mother, when Margot’s life had been a simple a game of survival she never felt like she was winning, near-always bruised skin, training herself not to cry out when she was burned with a cigar or a cigarette. The superficial things they had in common and their sexual attraction was not enough to outweigh all of the things that set them apart. 

When she returned to the house the day after her father had found out about Judy, he’d pinned her against the wall, his hands balled into fists as he pressed his right arm to her throat to choke her, elbow close enough to her eye to have her flinching. 

“ I  _ won’t  _ have a  lesbian for a daughter,” he hissed, and there was just enough whisky on his breath to have him out of control but not enough to discredit the venom in his words. “If you want to see that little bitch again, then you leave today, and you never come back.” 

It was the first, and only, time anyone had ever given her the opportunity to leave, making her father’s disgust all the more clear. She could have slipped out from under his hold, packed a bag, made the drive out to Judy’s dorm house and called her from the driveway. _“I need you,”_ she could have said, and Judy would have taken her in, despite their fight and her phone call the previous night. Judy would have asked just the right amount of questions, and then she would have told Margot to stay as long as she needed. 

She could have had her safety  _ and  _ Judy: the perfect combination. She could have enrolled in a college course in the fall and started a part-time job that paid enough to live on. In a year, when she tired of that, she could have followed Judy to the ends of the earth as she chased her own dreams and been satisfied simply with the fact nobody would ever burn her or slap her so hard they left a mark again; there would be no more nights crying herself to sleep in a barn with wet hair and thoughts about dying. 

She might have had such a different life: a contented one, a  _ safe _ one, if nothing else, but something had stopped her from going after it. She hadn’t understood it at the time, or in the years that followed, but she understood it now. 

She hadn’t loved Judy, despite all her trying, and maybe Judy hadn’t loved her, either. 

Judy had cried in front of her, about college exams and her religious parents and her back-stabbing best friend, and Margot had listened and maybe even cared about all of these things at the time, but it was only the hitch of Alana’s voice, the sight of her soft blue eyes filling with tears, the way she had crumpled into her arms, that had moved Margot to  _ real  _ empathy. Until that moment, she had not realized it was really possible to feel someone else’s pain splitting you from the core; she had not understood what drove people to protect the ones they cared about; she had not really  _ known  _ what it meant to care more about how someone else felt than your own feelings. 

Judy had clumsily avoided her scars, the way someone who felt apprehensive to ask, someone who didn’t want to know did-- but Alana had brushed her lips to each and every one so many times now and was steadily learning the origins behind them.

Judy had kissed her at midnight at a New Year’s Eve party, and it had been the first time Margot had felt the nice kind of butterflies, but she had never curled around her in the throes of a nightmare; Judy had not once buried her head in Margot’s bare shoulder and breathed her in in way that suggested she could never have enough. Judy had whispered everything Margot wanted to hear, but Alana hadn’t been afraid to emphasise, firmly, all the things she  _ needed  _ to. 

Judy had been smart, but the things Alana had taught her had nothing to do with a college education; Judy and been stereotypically pretty, but the way Alana smiled at her first thing in the morning had re-defined Margot’s perception of ‘beautiful’; Judy made her laugh, but Margot could not remember laughing as much, in spite of having so little to laugh about, as she had in the last  month and a half.

“ You think you were waiting for me?” Alana shook her head, voice tender but firm. “You were waiting for  _ yourself _ . We learn a lot about ourselves through trauma. Respectively, we came out of the things that happened understanding ourselves better, if nothing else.” 

“ Do you really believe that?” Margot wasn’t sure the things she had learned from the years between Judy and Alana had really been as positive or enlightening as Alana seemed to think; she thought of the journal that Alana may or may not have read and all the ways it would only confuse her more, evoke greater hurt. To her, the best thing that came out of their respective traumas were that they met each other, but she could not vocalise that without sounding codependent. 

“ I believe that you knew you were worth more than running away with a girl you only thought you should love, just like I knew a life surrounded by people like the ones in there wasn’t what I wanted for myself.” Alana’s eyes were wide with intensity: wide and unblinking. “And I believe that you know now that telling yourself the family business is all you need and want doesn’t make it true, just like me digging up pieces of the past won’t stop it from happening again.” Alana raised her glass, wincing when it smashed with Margot’s a little too loudly. Not enough to break the glass, but almost. “I believe that we wouldn’t be able to see the things we’re doing wrong now if we hadn’t done some things right before.” 

Margot didn’t know if their relationship was included in Alana’s list of ‘things they were doing wrong.’ 

“ You could just say that you’re glad I didn’t run away with her, you know.” She was joking, but Alana’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“ I can’t, though. I wanted you to save yourself, to come to the realizations that you are now on your own, but more than that, I want you to be safe. I want what happened to you not to have happened: even if you grew from it, what Mason was doing and what he did  _ was  _ and  _ is  _ horrific.” Alana lowered her glass. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t rather have met you, years after you ran away with the other woman, because you might not have had the self-awareness or the strength that you do now but you would have had the safety and the freedom you  _ deserved _ .” 

“ Why makes you so certain we still would have met each other?” Perhaps she would have been married to Judy by now: maybe they would have a kid together, somehow, or maybe they’d be living on the other side of the world. She certainly would not have wound up somewhere between Virginia and Maryland, entangled with Dr. Lecter and living with her brother: her path with Alana may never have crossed or, stranger still, they may have crossed paths and not realized what they were missing. 

“ I  _ know  _ I would have,” Alana said, and when she turned to look at Margot this time, the moonlight didn’t bring out a sparkle, but a tear in her eyes. “I can’t imagine my life without you now.” 

“ If you get me another drink, you might not have to.” The half-hearted glare Alana shot her in response was easily one of the best things Margot had ever seen, and so she waited until it was beginning to fade before kissing Alana, slowly and softly but with an undertone of possessiveness she’d been careful to avoid until now. When she pulled back, licking her lips, she added her best attempt at a sincere, “ _ Please _ .” 

Alana rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her smile. Her tears had been blinked away when she been caught up in the kiss: Margot wanted it to be like this always, didn’t want Alana to cry ever again because she was around to distract her from all of that, and it was the single most sickening sweet thought she’d ever entertained but it didn’t bother her because Alana was the exception to all of her other rules too, and it didn’t feel like an imposition at all. “Fine,” Alana sighed, taking the second empty glass from Margot. “I’ll be back. Stay here.” 

Her request was unnecessary. Margot had no intention of going anywhere. 

* * *

Inside, Alana was glancing around for the  caterer  with the champagne when a man Margot had spoken to earlier came up behind her.

“ I  _ knew  _ I recognized you,” he said, and her stomach flipped as she felt her face heat up. She turned to face him, wishing he would lower his voice as he brightly probed, “ _ Dr.  _ Alana Bloom, isn’t it?” 

She wished she could lie, but it was shocking that she’d managed to avoid recognition for so long as she had-- she suspected that may have been the cause of some of the stares she and Margot had been on the receiving end of tonight. 

When she nodded, albeit reluctantly, he held his hand out to her for a second time, a smile breaking out on his face when she took it, unable to sense her agitation. “I’m Dr. George Heady. I taught at Georgetown for a semester. You probably don’t remember me, I took some Economics classes while O’Hare was on leave. My boy was in a few of  _ your  _ classes, though. He was enamored with you: called you ‘inspiring.’ Not many college professors earn a reputation like that these days.” 

For the longest moment, Alana just stared at the man, her mind running over and over his words with disbelief. She didn’t remember him, but she remembered who she now realized was his son, Paul. He’d sat on the back, on his own, and he’d been slow to leave unlike most of the others, staying behind to ask her questions that suggested he had more in mind than simply passing the semester. When the classes rotated in the fall, she found a  _ Thank You  _ card from him on her desk. The last she’d heard, he’d taken a year or two out to partake in a programme that worked to educate and actively support incarcerated youths. 

“ Your son was a pleasure to teach,” was about all of the reply she could muster, when really she was thinking  _ doesn’t he realize who I  _ really  _ am?  _ It was then, in that moment, with a stranger in the middle of the ballroom of a grand hotel, that Alana realized she too had started to define herself by what had happened. 

Alana offered him a weak smile, but it felt broken even to her. “You’ll give Paul my best, won’t you? I’m sorry, but if you’ll excuse me…” 

She edged away from him, making her way through threads of people to the refreshment table, where she took one of many bottles of wine in plain sight. Then, she found the fire exit she’d entered through and slipped back into the night. 

“ When I asked you to get me a drink, I was thinking more of a glass,” Margot commented, when she found her again. “Did you even  _ bring  _ glasses or are we drinking from the bottle tonight?” 

Fuck--  _ glasses _ . Alana stole a glance in the direction of the door, shuddering at the thought of bumping into Dr. Heady again and seeming like a greater disappointment. “It’s a bottle kind of night,” she decided. 

“ We can go inside, if you’re cold,” Margot said, attributing Alana’s shuddering to the weather: while she’d been inside battling her distorted self-image, it had begun to snow very lightly. 

“ I’m fine out here.” She let out a breath. “It’s  _ nice  _ out here-- quiet. I like it.” What she meant was that there was nobody staring, nobody whispering, no one to make either of them feel like a lie. 

Almost as if she’d jinxed it with talk of the quiet, the music volume inside seemed to amplify: what had been a dull hum was now an  irritating  echo. Margot groaned. “The only thing worse than the social aspects of these things is the music they  _ insist  _ on playing as a method to ensure the guests are inebriated enough to  be careless  with their cheque-books.” 

Alana didn’t know what song was playing, yet it sounded familiar. Maybe her father had had it on record, or maybe she’d heard it on the radio once or maybe it simply sounded like the kind of song that underpinned a memory like this one: it didn’t matter. She put aside the bottle of wine, for now at least, and she took Margot’s hands in her own. “Dance with me,” she said. 

Margot pulled a face. “I don’t dance.” 

“ No,” Alana took two steps forward, until Margot’s arms came around her waist, until she was close enough to press her forehead against Margot’s, “but you’ll make an exception for me.” 

“ _ Arrogant _ ,” Margot snorted quietly, her hand linking with Alana’s in the air, her feet already beginning to follow Alana’s, and Alana did not feel the need to point out that she was also  _ right.  _

 

* * *

It was 2:13am, and they were dancing barefoot in the elevator of the hotel with melting snowflakes in their hair. Margot was laughing, and she didn’t know why, reason lost somewhere between sneaking the second bottle of wine and convincing one of the guests that they were European royalty, but she didn’t care either.

She’d charged the hotel’s last remaining room to the credit card Cordell had given her without thinking twice. When the elevator dinged to signal their arrival at the third floor, Alana took her hand and stumbled as she tried to twirl them both around while moving out without the doors closing on them, and all Margot could think as her drunken giggles filled her ears was,  _ I wish we never had to leave.  _

Sex sobered their intoxication, but it heightened the high. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed as much as I have tonight,” Alana announced, rubbing her sides as the memory had her giggling again. “God, Margot. You will kill me, you know.”

“ I don’t think I’ve ever laughed like that.” She lay on her side, Alana looking up at her with tired but attentive eyes. When Alana yawned, she did too, and then Alana was laughing again and it wasn’t even  _ fucking  _ funny but Margot couldn’t stop herself from smiling. 

After more kissing, more touching and more laughing, Margot lay with her head on Alana’s shoulder and fingered her starfish necklace. “Who got you this?” she asked quietly, a question she meant to ask so many times but was afraid to, in case the answer was ‘Hannibal Lecter.’ There was something about tonight, however, that rendered this moot. She found it difficult to imagine Alana had had this kind of connection with anyone else; she no longer believed that what they had built together was comparable to any other relationship. How could she feel threatened by Will Graham or Hannibal Lecter, when she’d spent the last four hours watching Alana turn a hellish party into one of the sweetest nights of her life? 

“ Hmm?” Alana was somewhere else, and Margot shifted to look at her. She wanted so badly to know what she was thinking. “Oh, the necklace?” Alana rolled her eyes. “It was a Christmas gift from one of my brothers. They take it in turns buying jewelry I wouldn’t pick for myself but feel obliged to wear anyway.”

“ You must like it,” Margot reasoned, yawning. “You wear it all the time.”

“ When I was little, I went through a phase when I wanted to be a sea explorer. I couldn’t even  _ swim--  _ I don’t know what I was thinking.” Alana laughed at the recollection, and Margot loved the feel of her tracea vibrating beneath her fingertips, loved the way it sent a tingling feeling through her own body.  “ Andrew would play along, though, and he’d borrow books from the middle school library for me to read when I’d exhausted those in my own school. I had a starfish nightlight, and its light-bulbs used to blow all the time, until my father decided it was too dangerous to have in case one of us cut ourselves on the glass. I was devastated.” 

“Your brother got you one you didn’t have to get rid of.” Margot had expected a complex story of symbolism (when was anything simple with Alana?) but she didn’t think something that mattered so much could would be a nod to a moment of Alana’s childhood. 

“I couldn't tell you where half of those things are now, or the last documentary I watched that had anything to do with the sea, ” Alana admitted. “And he didn’t mention the night-light, or my sea explorer phase. He just said he thought I’d like it-- and I do, because even if it was just subconsciously, he remembered something that used to be important to me.” Alana thought for a moment. “Adam, on the other hand, is a disaster. You should  _ see  _ the earrings he bought me for my birthday. If I’d worn them to work, I wouldn’t have needed an affiliation with Hannibal Lecter to be shown the door.” 

Margot didn’t laugh at this: she found it incredibly difficult to laugh about any of it, even when Alana was intentionally making light of it. She’d smiled at the half-jokes a few times, but then she would remember the scars on Alana’s back from the surgeries; the look on her face as she’d told Margot about her meeting with the FBI; the way she flinched like she was falling in her sleep sometimes, the recollection so violently crisp that it jolted her awake.

“ Everything I have was bought by my brother,” Margot said simply. “But I can’t recall one gift.”

Alana stared at her, for a long moment, and then her hand on was on Margot back as she angled her head closer, titling it so she could place feathery kisses on her neck. “When is your birthday?” Alana asked, when Margot threw her head back. “I promise I’ll buy you all the crappy jewelry you could ever want.” 

Her birthday was six months away. A few weeks ago, Margot would have doubted they would even still be in contact by then. Tonight, with Alana’s lips curled and pressed against her skin, Margot could not imagine that they  _ wouldn’t  _ be. She still could not see her future clearly, but she was confident it would include Alana.

 


	18. love her all you want, she was never yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected (a lot of editing was necessary from the original draft put together four months ago) but two chapters this time for you my lovelies! I'm uploading them together for convenience but they are quite long so you may want to pace yourselves. 
> 
> Bear with me with these two chapters if you can, I do promise better things ahead, but trying to do The Right Thing by characters is hard. Also, apologies that you must suffer my admittedly inconsistent portrayal of Dr. (Nurse?) Cordell Doemling-- i give up with this, i'm too torn between book, movie + headcannon soo
> 
> As always, thank you for the support, it means the world.

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t struggling.

Without meaning to, Alana could feel herself sinking deeper into her thoughts, and like a quick-sand composed of doubt, they consumed her. She’d been ignoring her concerns for weeks, brushing them aside because getting lost in Margot was a better option, but the party and all it brought with it had rendered her incapable of continuing to pretend.

Her memories of the night were a touch too foggy, too much alcohol clouding her recollections, but she remembered the stares, the whispers. It was probable they were directed more towards Margot than her, but that did not mean Margot's desire to escape from it came as anything but a relief to Alana. She still felt the flush in her cheeks, the ache in the back of her throat, when the stranger from Georgetown recognized her.

She couldn't live like this; _wouldn't_ live like this. She'd worked too damn hard and sacrificed too much to just lay low and wait for the strom to pass. Her reputation would not magically resort itself overnight. It pained her to admit that this was not a career break as much as it was a general break _down._

She didn't think her relationship with Margot was damaging, but it had the capacity to be, and that still worried her. She didn't think their dependence on each other was unhealthy, but, unsurprisingly considering how vulnerable they had both been, it was beginning to become so. Not only had she pushed away her own problems, she had neglected Margot’s.

It was not a game of self-destruction: they were invested equally now and the thought of _this_ turning toxic too was more than Alana thought she could be expected to take, considering-- it was far more than she thought Margot could take.

Incapable of ignoring Margot's calls even when she consciously knew she should, she accepted her offers of dinner and drinks and took her home, fell into bed with her as though it was the only thing in the world that mattered when Alana knew they both needed so much _more_.

For the most part, they’d been doing alright. Alana was happy, and she made Margot happy, or seemed to. With Margot, she’d laughed like she hadn’t thought she’d be able to, and she’d felt things she didn’t think she’d allow herself to feel again. Emotionally, their relationship had been nothing short of beneficial— even beyond that, it had been a blessing.

But it _wasn't_ enough-- Margot still wanted to prove she could achieve business recognition, she still wanted Mason's money, she still entertained the fantasy that one day she would run things, whether her brother was alive or dead. Alana, on the other hand, still wanted Hannibal to be caught, she still wanted justice and most of all, she wanted to rebuild her career.

They had each other, and it was nothing short of remarkable how _lovely_ it was, but it was not all they needed, not by far. They had not come from the kind of worlds, and nor did they wish to currently exist in one, where another person was all it took to complete their happiness-- regardless of how wonderful that other person was.

On the day she mustered the strength to discuss any of this with Margot, she found herself in the Verger's kitchen, declining Doemling's offer of a drink while she waited for Margot to finish changing upstairs after being out with the horses.

“She's taken to you,” Doemling noted evenly. “Mason tells me she wasn't very social before.”

She hated that they spoke about Margot at all: she especially hated that they spoke about Margot _because_ of her. “Mason is somewhat of a recluse himself, these days,” she reminded him dryly.

“Hardly surprising,” Doemling said defensively, “ _is_ it?” She wanted to point out that neither was it surprising that Margot too had problems forming relationships revolving around trust, considering how her own family had treated her and how those around her had condoned it, but she knew how futile it would prove. Doemling didn’t want to hear about Margot, not really: Alana doubted he cared about her anymore than the people at the party _hadn't_. When she didn't answer, he paused before continuing, “I imagine they make the most intriguing cases to study.”

The implication would have made her laugh, had it not been so offensive. “Is that why you think I'm here?” She wondered if he'd shared this assumption with Mason, with _Margot_. “You think this is _professional_ to me?”

“I think it's unprofessionally professional,” Doemling reasoned, tapping his fingers against the table between them. “We've all been there, Dr. Bloom. You wouldn't be the first to exploit a personal connection for a greater… _insight_.”

There was something about him this time, something that had been buried before, something that was unearthed only from now being comfortable here: a stranger disposition, an unsettling deliverance. He'd obviously been paying close attention to his patient: perhaps he even thought himself threatening.

Alana did not marvel about Margot's mind as she had Will's. She did not have a professional curiosity; she had a vested personal interest, a sincere desire to help someone she cared about. She did not regret her feelings for Margot, as she had Will, but had acted on those feelings and perused them and was continuing to nurture them.

Even now that she doubted herself, she didn't doubt her decision to become involved with Margot romantically. It was _right_ and, regardless of how she felt objectively, it had come about at exactly the right time. That was not what she queried now, not at all: it was where they were supposed to go from here.

“I would appreciate it if you kept your theories to yourself.” The very last thing she needed, after a serious talk with Margot that was sure to be as unsuccessful as all those previous, was for Doemling to whisper something about being used in Margot's ear. Alana stared him out. “You don't know me.”

“Neither does she,” Doemling returned, folding the newspaper out of in front of himself. “I think you and I are quite alike, you know. We both care about people who are difficult to care about. We're persistent in that regard: we want them to have everything they aspire to.”

“Do we?” She was learning a lot about Dr. Doemling. He wanted her to relate to him, so he was most likely after something; he prioritised what either Verger wanted above what they needed-- not exactly a physician-type viewpoint. “It's subjective though, isn't it? What Margot wants, Mason doesn't, and vice versa. They've had thirty years to figure it out and they haven't been successful: it would be naïve to think either of us can persuade them to now.”

“I think we could be of great use to each other,” Doemling announced, sitting back in his chair. “After all, we can't simply _give up._ I could talk to Mason. I could urge him to be more accommodating of his sister.”

As if Mason would listen to _him_. Still, something in his tone (a chilling kind of assurance that hadn't been there before, perhaps) had her sitting forward. “In exchange for what?” The hair on the back of her neck rose as she heard footsteps on the stairs, boots against wood. “What do you want from her?”

Doemling got to his feet, but not before leaning across the table. “Not her, Dr. Bloom,” he said quietly, and then he picked up the newspaper and slipped past Margot in the doorway.

“Ready?” Margot asked, ignoring him, eyes on Alana as she fixed her jacket.

Alana nodded a second too late, following Margot out to the car without speaking. She unlocked the doors and Margot got in, shivering from the cold, but Alana glanced up at the house.

Her imagination may or may not have supplied a curtain twitching, but there was no Dr. Doemling or Mason Verger watching them from what she could tell. She slipped into the car knowing she could never be completely certain, with a renewed awareness of how it felt to be powerless.

 

* * *

They went out for dinner together, and Alana did not bring up Doemling or her concerns about them-- despite the fact she had been flooded with these worries an hour ago, she was becoming dangerously skilled at pushing objectivity aside. It didn’t make her feel better, though: when she reflected on this all later, it was sure to make her feel as if she were losing control.

They talked about going to see a movie, next time, and Alana was content to let Margot pick what they saw because it was an empty plan that she could feel slipping through her fingers even as they spoke. She drank more wine than she would have normally at this time of the day, but if Margot noticed-- and she must have, because she noticed _everything_ \-- she did not question it: perhaps she knew better by now.

Afterward, they returned to Alana’s and curled up on the sofa with a yawning dog between them. When she finally brought up Cordell, Margot seemed marginally surprised.  
  
“How much do we really know about him?” Alana wondered aloud, shifting until they were looking at each other.

“It hardly matters.” Margot stroked Applesauce’s ear absent-mindedly. “I keep telling you-- he’s _insignificant._ Don’t worry about him; he won’t last long.”

Alana wondered if the reason she couldn't keep herself from worrying about Doemling was because if she didn’t, her mind would give way for thoughts about them: some concerns were safer to unpack and neater to pack away than others.

With a little more persuasion, Margot relented and Google’d him on her phone. She scrolled down the first page of results, and then silently handed it to Alana.

“What is it?” She held the phone in her hand, but didn’t look at the screen. “ _Margot_?”

Whatever it was didn’t seem to be a shock to Margot. Arms folded, she gave a half shrug. “Read it. _You_ wanted to know.”

The first result brought up a page which amounted to a German sex offenders list. His name and a foreign address where listed along with a black and white picture. The next result said he was a nurse who had taken advantage of minors at the hospital where he’d worked. She didn’t want to go on. She handed the phone back to Margot and shut her eyes.

“Fuck.”

“He probably fled from Europe.” Margot tapped on another result and skimmed the article it brought up **.** “Six counts of aggravated child abuse.”

“Stop.” Alana leaned across Applesauce and tapped the ‘lock’ button along the top of Margot’s phone. “Why do I get the feeling this is old news to you?”

“I’m quite thorough at investigating just who is living in _my_ house.”

“You didn’t tell me.” She felt a headache roar between her eyes, rubbing her temples in defeat as she threw her neck back against the couch cushions. “Jesus Christ, Margot.”

“He’s after _children_.” Margot looked away. “Not much cause for us to be concerned, is there?”

“He’s a pedophile, Margot. He shouldn’t be working with _anyone_ vulnerable.” Even as she said this, Alana's thoughts were not of Mason: only of all the nights she and Margot had spent apart, all the times she’d left her alone with him and her brother. She felt nauseous.

“Not even Mason?” Margot seemed disappointed. “His hallmarks are rich families: he likes the money. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he found himself working with my brother, do you?”

“We’re going to the police about this.” Even before she’d finished this sentence, Margot was shaking her head.

“What if we didn’t?” She asked, in a tone that implied she’d already made that decision. “What if we just... _didn’t_?”

“He’s working on your brother: that’s why he doesn’t want you around.” Alana didn't want to know the details, didn't care, so long as he was out of the picture. “He wants Mason’s undivided attention.”

“He wants Mason’s _money_.” Margot gave a small shrug, although she was anything but indifferent to the topic. “ _My_ money. He has a plan-- wouldn’t it be foolish not to have one of my own?”

“A plan?” Her headache amplified in an instant. “Oh, Margot, _don’t_ \--”

“-- I don’t need you to be involved.” She sounded a touch too hostile, defensive like she had been in the beginning, but Alana watched her eyes soften as she seemed to realize this. Quieter, she added, “Don’t look so worried. It’s nothing dangerous.”

Alana barely managed to keep herself from asking if Margot had thought that _last_ time too. “What is it, Margot?” When Margot merely blinked at her, she felt blood rushing to her cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t keep secrets like that from me; fuck, Margot, I _told_ you, I won’t go through this again.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Margot’s hand was on her arm, and Alana didn’t want to shake it off, but she couldn’t quite let herself lean into the touch either. “I won’t get into something I can’t handle. Anyway, it’s nothing more than an idea at the moment.”

“Tell me,” Alana said firmly, a glare quickly following. “ _Margot_.”

“I'm considering a deal with him,” was Margot’s short reply. “He is no more interested in Mason than you or I: o _ne_ of us should profit from his lack of loyalty.”

“What do you think this deal of yours will entail, Margot?” Even as she asked this, each word trapping her voice with its weight, suffocating the question that itched her throat before it could be voiced: _you’re still thinking of killing your brother, aren’t you?_

She hadn’t realized-- hadn’t been thinking about it, deliberately-- but somewhere along the way she’d started to believe she’d saved Margot, if from nothing else than from those dark thoughts. But she hadn’t, not really-- Margot was conditioned to think like that: for much longer than Alana understood, her only aspiration had been to see Mason dead, with his money in her name. Whatever they were now, this had all begun with Alana as a means to that end; now, it was Cordell’s turn.

Subconsciously or not, she had wanted to believe that she'd changed Margot’s mind, wanted to believe she’d gotten through to her—it struck her now that she was not the only one pretending.

She wasn’t angry at Margot, not nearly as angry as she was at herself. _She_ should have known better; she shouldn’t feel disappointed by the fact they hadn’t saved each other, because she'd be so clear to condemn that in the beginning.

For the first time, she looked at Margot, who wasn’t looking at her, and thought: _I’m failing you, too._ Margot might not have been her patient, but that did not mean Alana could evade the responsibility for the way things were. She’d been too preoccupied with all the wonderful ways they’d been together that it had been easy, too easy, to ignore their respective problems. Hers hadn’t disappeared: why had she expected that Margot’s might?

“I don’t know yet.” Maybe Margot was lying, or perhaps she _was_ actively trying to smother the thoughts of killing Mason: it didn’t really matter. Alana knew it was there, bubbling beneath the surface, just waiting for Margot to give in and burst it with acknowledgement: Alana could tell by the apology shining in Margot’s eyes when she turned to her. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about me. I’m handling this.”

 _I’m handling this,_ and Alana deserved the way it stuck in her mind like a splinter because she’d been so damn adamant that Margot take control, so recklessly insistent that she make these moves by herself without influence. Now, she was being shut out.

Ignorance did not sit well with her at all. She'd allowed Jack and Will to shut her out of things she hadn't wanted to be privy to, and look where it had left her, left them all. She'd learned her lessons the hard way, but that made their teachings all the more permanent.

It was time she put those teachings into practice.

* * *

 

The following afternoon, when she knew Margot would be out with the horses, she called the Verger's main phone and, when Doemling answered, she asked him to meet with her.

He agreed without hesitation, suggested the same coffee shop where she had first met Margot, and told her he would be there within the hour.

When he arrived, thirteen minutes late, he took his coat off slowly and wasted at least eight minutes debating over what to order. He did not seem like someone who was anxious about having left a patient with someone who had history with trying to _kill_ said patient. Until she’d been silently condemning him for this, Alana herself had not realized she may have given Margot an opening.

“Who is with Mason now?” she asked quickly, to which Doemling replied the name of a nurse who had cared for him from the beginning.

“She nursed their father on his death bed, too,” Doemling added, and Alana didn’t know if he was telling her this because he thought it relevant that she trust this nurse, or because he was particularly smug about any details he knew that she did not. “She’s a pleasant woman. Very fond of both of them, actually.”

Alana assumed that meant she was intimidated by Mason and negligent of Margot, because that seemed to be the only way to maintain a considerable connection to the Verger’s. “I didn’t ask to meet with you so we could compare notes on the people in their lives,” she said blankly.

“I don’t think that would take very long, do you?” Doemling’s half-smile had her skin crawling. “It would be a short list, of which you and I are at the top of.”

His preoccupation with Margot and Mason being isolated was nothing short of disturbing. She'd known there was more to him than reached the eye from the beginning, but she hadn't thought to expect this.

She had not intention of conversing with him, at any rate. Cutting to the chase, she asked, “What do you want from Mason?”

Doemling had the audacity to look offended. “My only concern is Mason’s health--”

_ I know about you,  _ Alana wanted to say, but she knew it was more dangerous than it was worth. Besides, it was better that he thought he had concealed the truth so skilfully: this way, she had some sort of upper hand.

“You’ve been pushing Margot toward me for weeks; you’ve been throwing money her way as if it’s _yours_ _._ The way I see it, either you care about her,” she found this very difficult to believe, but pretending to consider it would lessen the hostility, “or you’re using her absence to get to her brother-- neither of which is in your job description.”

Doemling took a sip of tea and then gently set it to rest on its saucer. “Is Margot displeased with the way I have treated her?”

Alana almost wished she was, so that at least she could call the police without Margot accusing her of interfering. “No. She says you’ve been fine.”

“I can be better, you know. I can ensure Mason is too distracted to play his silly games with her.” He laid this offer flat, as though it were a bridge between them. “I can ensure she has greater freedom, greater financial access. Would she like that, do you think, Dr. Bloom?”

If he were to follow through, it _would_ satisfy Margot, for now at least, but it didn’t sit right with Alana. She didn’t trust this, didn’t take kindly to men who believed they were being generous in gifting women with slivers of power that was rightfully theirs; she knew this was nothing more than a patronising ploy to pacify Margot while he himself advanced in power. It was nothing close to the kind of future Alana wanted for her.

It was also, unfortunately, not Alana's choice to make.

“I’ll ask you again-- what’s your condition?”

Doemling gave an uncomfortable smile. “It’s not so much a condition as it is a request.”

“Call it whatever you want.” Impatient, Alana leaned forward. “What do you _want_?”

“Truthfully, I have a lust for money.” The fact he spoke of this ‘lust’ in perfect monotone did not unnerve Alana as much as it amused her. “It’s one of my many... _weaknesses_. Taking that into account, and given I am among the first to have Mason’s best interests at heart, I don’t believe it would be wrong of me to aspire to have control of his assets, should his judgement be impaired for one reason or another.”

Alana turned this thought over. “I don’t think Margot has that kind of influence over Mason’s business decisions.”

Doemling nodded. “Which is why I’m not asking her.”

“Me?” Alana raised an eyebrow. “What would I say? Mason won’t listen to me.”

“You don’t have to _say_ anything.” Doemling eyed her steadily. “Accept his offer; go to Italy; find Hannibal Lecter.”

This struck more of a chord with her than it should have. Her cheeks flushed, but she salvaged it with confused blinking: she didn’t want Doemling to know she’d been thinking about that. “I fail to see how that would secure you control over Mason’s finances.”

“We had a deal of our own: I was to convince you to accept his offer.” Doemling sat back, lifting his chin a fraction. “I wanted to prove to Mason I was trustworthy.”

“You must have thought it probable that he was lying to you-- he won't _really_ give you any kind of control.” Surely Doemling had considered the possibility; surely she was not the only one who had learned to take promises with pinches of salt. Beyond this, what would Mason have to gain by involving Doemling so heavily? Why would he give someone he'd barely just met that kind of ammunition to destroy him?

“Of course he won't-- _yet_ anyway.” Doemling folded his hands together. “Relationships take time. I simply need you to help me lay the foundations. In the meantime, you'd be surprised how much access I already have.”

“Is that so?” She was mocking him, openly, but Doemling was not the pantomime villain he seemed to think he was, and she was not afraid. This back and forth with someone who had grown accustomed to intimidating those they conversed with was something she still knew how to do, and do well. 

“If it were to guarantee your absence even proceeding Lecter’s capture, I would even be willing to offer you a parting sum of money.” His insecurity knew no bounds, evidently.

“You want to pay me to stay away?” Alana sat back in her chair. “You expect me to believe that _that_ will ensure Margot’s safety?”

He frowned. “Well, when you put it so _bluntly_ it sounds rather heinous, doesn't it?”

Alana did not need to ask why Doemling did not give Margot the money to leave, or request that they leave together. Yes, it would have isolated Mason further to banish his only remaining family, but without Margot, Mason was not nearly as dependant as she knew Doemling wanted. Mason relied on him physically, medically, but he had nurses for that-- since Hannibal, Mason could not trust just _anyone_ to monitor his sister. Without Margot, Doemling had no way to prove his continued allegiance.

It was the reason Alana did not believe him when he said he aspired to make Margot happy too. If Mason asked him to hurt Margot, if he was offered the right amount of money or power, she knew Doemling would not hesitate. He would turn on her as quickly as he had turned on Mason, except Margot did not have the money to reacquire his loyalty. His pretty lies did not ring true to her, however much she would have liked them to, for Margot’s sake.

“You’re considering it.” Doemling smirked at her. “I knew you were an intelligent lady. Both Verger’s have underestimated you, I think.”

She agreed with this assessment, but not in the same way Cordell did. She was certain Margot expected her to back off and allow her to handle things-- of course she did, because that was what Alana had urged in the beginning. But things were different now:  _ they  _ were different now.

She knew she couldn't swoop in and save the day; she knew that even if she did, somehow, Margot would not thank her for it. Still, she cared about Margot too much to pass up this opportunity: it could mean  _ options _ , something no one else to date had been able to give her. Alana didn't have a plan yet, and of course Margot would not take it well, but they were living the alternative at present, and it was simultaneously destroying everything good they had built together. Continuing to condone an unhealthy dynamic and sending mixed messages while battling her own problems, bottling them until the erupted in a fight or a crying fit or a broken night when they lay together like strangers instead of lovers, was certainly not what Alana wanted from their relationship.

It was only a temporary arrangement, after all; it would benefit them both if she had her way. It wasn't fair, and maybe it wasn't completely logical, but sometimes leaving really was the best course of action.

After a long moment, Alana looked up at Doemling. “How much money are you offering?” she asked.

* * *

An hour later, Alana sat in front of Mason Verger, bargaining with him as though it were not the very last thing she ever imagined herself doing.

“I knew you’d be back,” Mason admitted with exaggerated dejection as Cordell poured them all a glass of bourbon, which she had no intention of drinking. “Admit it: my offer was simply too generous to pass up, wasn’t it?”

Alana glanced at Cordell, who was making it his life’s mission not to look at her-- painfully conspicuous, in her opinion. She didn’t answer Mason, but she took a glass in her hand and fixed her eyes on the amber liquid as she swirled it around.

“So! Italy, then. Aren’t you a lucky girl, Dr. Bloom?”

“Italy?” Alana pretended to be surprised; as if Cordell had not spent fifteen minutes coaching her about Mason’s expectations on the drive back here. “I thought you wanted me to profile Hannibal. From _here._ ”

“I could get _anyone_ to do that. Oh, no, Dr. Bloom, you’re needed over there. It’s mere _anarchy_ at the moment. Haven’t you been reading the papers?” Mason licked his lips. “Four murders now. He’s leaving a trail. He _wants_ to be found, don’t you think?”

“ _Or_ , that’s what he wants us to think,” Alana corrected. Quiter, she added, “he’s luring Will back.” She didn’t miss the way Cordell stiffened at her break in what they had rehearsed.

Mason, on the other hand, looked elated. “See! Your mind’s already there. Shall I book the next flight?”

She set aside her glass and rubbed her hands together in her lap, her blood running cold now this was suddenly real, although of course it still did not feel it. It felt as out of reach as the plans she'd made with Margot had been. Now at least, she understood why. Maybe all along, subconsciously, she'd known it would come to this.

“I need a week, at least. I have things to take to care of: I can’t just pick up and go.” She fixed her thoughts on the dogs, her brothers. She was deliberately avoiding those of Margot and what would happen between them, if only so she could get through this.

“Very well. A week, then, and not a day more! Can’t have you changing your mind on us, Dr. Bloom.” Mason’s attention turned to Cordell, who was pouring himself another glass with hands that shook slightly. “Cordell: make yourself useful and get this set in motion, won’t you?”

“Of course.” His eyes did not linger on Alana for a second longer than necessary. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you, Dr. Bloom.”

He slipped out of the room without another word, and Alana noted the change in the interactions between him and Mason. The last time she had been in front of them, Mason had spoke of Doemling as if he were not in the room; now, he was an active part of their conversation-- moreover, he was the one pulling the strings, even if Mason was not yet aware of this.

“I have a condition,” Alana said, interrupting whatever sarcasm Mason was sprouting about sending Hannibal his finest regards.

Mason’s eyes shone. “I imagine you do. However, you are not in a position to bargain with me--”

“Aren’t I?” Alana shifted, sitting up a little straighter, swinging her foot as she pressed her crossed legs tighter together. “It seems that you need me more than I need you.”

“Is that so?” He blinked at her: it obviously wasn’t very often somebody thought to challenge Mason. “What about my sister? How easily I could turn her against you…”

“You won’t need to.” It hurt that this was the most truthful she had been since she’d walked into the room: it hurt so much Alana couldn’t even force herself to look at Mason, to play the part Cordell wanted her to. “You won’t need to do anything to turn her against me. I’ve done that for myself. I have nothing else to lose. I could walk away from this right now and I won’t have lost anything I didn’t have two months ago.”

Mason was quiet for only a second. “You could, but you won’t. You want Dr. Lecter caught as much as I do.”

She didn't miss a beat either. She looked up, frowning. “The difference is, only one of us needs the other to achieve that.”

“You do flatter yourself, Dr. Bloom. Without my funds, your efforts would be useless.” Still, Mason scowled in defeat. “What’s the condition?”

“From here on out, I deal strictly with Dr. Doemling.” This was all he needed, a slight nudge in the right direction, and it was nothing on the way he had abused Margot but it still felt exploitative-- it still felt wrong.

He pursed his lips together. “Is there a reason for that request?”

“I find him marginally more trustworthy than you.” She looked down at her hands. “Anyway, don't you think you should be focusing on your recovery?”

“It is not that you have had quite enough of us Verger’s, then?” She felt her stomach flip as he tutted. “First, you’re burning bridges with my sister, then you’re severing ties with me. It’s very telling, Dr. Bloom. I did warn you against getting too close.”

When she didn’t reply, Mason took this as a cue to continue. “I’ve been considering giving Doemling greater financial control for a while now. I have an agreement drawn up: it’s amazing how loyal the promise of financial investment can render a person. Nothing that damages me in any way, of course. Oh, no, I've learned the dangers of loop holes.” Was that what he reduced what had happened to Margot, what he had _done_ to her to? The consequence of a loop-hole in their father's will? She felt any guilt she did feel dissolving quickly as he spoke. “However, it would involve entrusting him with business decisions too. We’ve been Verger-run since we began over sixty years ago. It's a familial empire, Dr. Bloom.”

She wished he wasn't telling her this, but she thought of the check she'd watched Cordell fill out a half hour ago. It was in her name, technically, but once cashed it would cease to be hers: it was more than enough for Margot to get out on her own, to do something for herself. Alana just wished she didn't have to set them both on fire to get it.

“But for how long?” She pressed. “Neither you nor Margot will produce a heir-- you saw to that. Where does that leave the Verger Empire?”

He feigned thought, but Alana knew it was something he had obsessed over at length. What else did he have to think about, after all? “I suppose it will die with me,” Mason said.

“I suppose it will.” She glanced up, expression purposely thoughtful. “I wonder, though, how your father would feel about you failing to maintain it. Perhaps he’d be disappointed. Perhaps he’d have been better leaving it to Margot, after all. Like you said, she _is_ more resourceful than you are.”

It was a strange thing, to see someone visibly backtrack. “It would destroy my sister, if I were to place control of the business, of our future, in the hands of someone else.” He looked up, and very quickly added, “Only secondary to me, of course, but _still_ , ahead of her.” She watched his frown turn to a grin, wide and unsettling and grotesque. “It's a sublime idea, Dr. Bloom. I’ll be sure to tell her she has you to thank for the contribution.”

She wasn't surprised at all to find Doemling had been listening by the door when she stepped into the hallway. “You did the right thing,” he assured her, straightening and clearing his throat, as if his opinion meant a goddamn thing to her.

“We're _done_ ,” she hissed, and he gave a sick, sadistic smile as she passed: a switch flicked as he flipped from one persona to another.   
  
“Well,” he said, “Let's hope so.”

* * *

 

That night, she closed her eyes while Margot kissed her neck and tried to ignore the guilt that churned her stomach with each touch. She made love to her with a heavy heart but hungry hands and apologetic lips, and afterward, she tucked herself around Margot as their breathings evened, in perfect sync for the very first time.

  
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was quiet, but steady, although she knew she wouldn't tell her, not like this.She'd never been one to hold back, to lie or to keep secrets, but when it came to ruining all they had, she was a coward of the worst kind.

“What is it?” Margot turned to her with sharp eyes, but her hand found Alana’s in the space between them and she pressed their palms together in gentle reassurance that made her insides ache. “Alana?”

“When you said you wouldn’t judge me if I had something to do with what Hannibal did, did you mean it?”

Margot turned her head to stare at the ceiling. “Do you think I say things to you that I _don’t_ mean?”

Alana shut her eyes and pressed herself closer against Margot’s bare skin. “You thought I was waiting for you to do something wrong-- what if you didn’t: what if _I_ did?”

Margot was too still. “I won’t pretend to read your mind. If something happened, before, you can tell me.” Margot turned her head again, to look at Alana, and although her own eyes remained closed, she could imagine Margot’s eyes softening in the same moment as her voice did. “I’m on _your_ side.”

It was such a funny thing: to hear something she’d spent so long imagining it would be nice to, only to have it feel like a knife twisting in her chest. If only she’d had someone on her side, someone who understood, someone who didn’t blame her in some way for the whole sordid mess… Now, it wasn't that it missed the mark, that it fell short-- it was exactly what she wanted, but it came with a complimentary dose of guilt that she hadn't previously anticipated.

She may not have actively set out turn Margot against Hannibal, but somewhere along the way it had happened, and at some point she’d made the conscious decision that protecting Margot from the truth about him was not nearly as important as making her understand. Had she been selfish, burdening Margot to make her more sympathetic to her?

Beyond that, did Alana really deserve to have Margot on her side, considering all the ways she’d just betrayed _her_? She’d spent the best part of the evening convincing herself that she was doing the right thing for the right reasons, but that resolve had been quickly shattered when Margot slipped into her living room, tugging off her scarf and complaining about the snow making horse-riding a nightmare, and Alana felt so torn between relief and regret that Mason and Cordell hadn’t already told her that she couldn’t even bring herself to speak.

She would tell her tomorrow. There was no room between them for lies like this, for secrets-- even those born from the desire to protect.

“Thank you,” she whispered now, when her heart was reallybeating in her ears to the pulse of,  _I’m so sorry._

 


	19. the tears i cry all taste of blame

Mornings after with Alana were tinged bittersweet. Even when one of them did not have a reason to rush off, or the sex had not come as a distraction from a greater problem, there was something knotted in the pit of Margot’s stomach that made the whole thing incredibly ominous.

She'd never felt this kind of panic before, but she was learning not to resent it in exchange for surrendering to it it was futile to fight her feelings and, at some point, she'd stopped wanting to. Surrender was easier, and much more pleasurable.

Still, as hard as she tried to push it aside, Margot couldn’t shake the feeling that the more time they spent together, the closer it came to being over.

She voiced this, as airily as she could, as they lay tangled together in Alana’s bed, a dog on either side of them. Alana was still for a beat too long before she smiled against Margot’s bare shoulder.

“I can’t get enough of you, either,” she said,the sensation of her soft lips moving against Margot’s shoulder enough to have the hairs there standing up on ends.

“I'm being serious.” She didn’t typically have to make this kind of distinction: usually, Alana could tell by the notes of her voice. The last few days had saw a change in her. Not distant exactly, but not entirely there either, like there was something thin between them, a barrier of glass that Margot only recognized when she reached out to touch. Whatever it was, it was doing little to reassure her. “I feel like we’re running out of time.”

“Tell me why you think that.” Alana rolled over to face her, hitching herself up with her elbow so eye contact was unavoidable. Her fingers found Margot’s hair and played with stands of it idly, but her blue eyes were full of focus now Margot had demanded it.

Her answer was short, an overview of the thousand smaller reasons she had for doubt: “Because things like this don’t last.”

Alana tilted her head. “Things like what, Margot?” A pause. “ _Relationships_?”

“Rare things.” She turned her head away, aware of the fact Alana was watching her through dark eyelashes, Margot’s lipstick from the previous night still a faint stain just below her lips, nail marks on her upper arms Margot must have made without even realizing. “Fragile things.”

“Two people caring about each other like this isn’t rare, Margot,” Alana said gently. No doubt, she thought she was helping-- instead, she made Margot want to roll away and gather her clothes from the floor. She was doing perfectly well without reminders of Alana’s ‘before.’

Except her legs were still tangled with Alana’s, and her hair was still though Alana’s fingers, and the flash of bitterness Alana’s statement had brought did nothing to overshadow the fluttering in her stomach just moments ago as Alana had kissed her good morning.

“Maybe not for _you_ ,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…” Alana shifted closer, her own hair falling on Margot’s stomach-- _tickling_. “I meant that for plenty of people, ‘things-like-this’ _do_ last.”

“Name one,” Margot challenged, and Alana broke into a smile so sweet she almost wanted to forget that she was annoyed with her.

“Okay, fine. So maybe not plenty of people that _we_ know.” She arched her back so she was hovering above Margot’s chest, their breasts almost touching but not quite. She was still smiling, warm and hopeful and Margot wanted to believe what was coming next, she truly did: “But that just means the odds are in our favour.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost you,” Margot said, her voice low as Alana’s eyes softened and her smile disappeared. “I can’t explain it. Sometimes you’re there, but other times I don’t think you are.”She’d never struggled to describe something so much in her life. How could she convey to Alana the way it felt to lay beside someone she could feel was fading? How did she put into words the confusion that the flicker of emptiness that would sometimes cross Alana’s otherwise emotion-filled eyes brought with it?

“I don’t mean to,” Alana said softly, her voice matching Margot’s in a whisper. “You make me wish I could stop thinking,” a soft, hesitant laugh, with something broken burried beneath it, “which is a pretty big thing for me. Sometimes I just-- I wish I could turn everything else off when I’m with you.”

“You don’t have to turn it off,” Margot reasoned, her hand coming up to brush Alana’s hair back from her cheek as she leaned her head in closer. “You could talk to me.”

She thought she'd made this clear before, but obviously Alana needed reminded. Talking about Hannibal and Will all that came from that was not something Margot was entirely comfortable with, but she was content to follow Alana's lead. She thought avoiding it was what the other woman wanted, yet in moments like these she wasn't so sure.

“You don’t want me to talk about it. _I_ don’t even think I want to hear myself talk about it.” She sat back on her heels, almost abruptly. Margot’s hands found Alana’s and their fingers seemed to lace together of their own accord-- bodies mournful of the loss of contact that their minds were too proud to acknowledge. “I know I’m not how you expected I would be. You thought I’d have it all figured out, and I don’t. I just-- there’s still a lot going on and I can't just see something as over because everyone around me says it should be.”

It seemed to Margot then that this was yet another miscommunication: here they were again, having two different conversations. “What are you saying?”

“I’m just asking you to bear with me **,”** Alana said, hand squeezing Margot’s, “for just a little longer.” Margot simply held her stare, until Alana took this as the affirmative she was obviously hoping for and leaned in closer again, pressing their foreheads together. “I promise you haven’t lost me. And you won’t-- not to this. It’s just chaos right now and I’m trying to figure it out without losing _myself_.”

Alana's words, as lovely as the sounded when they were half-whispered against her, were far from magic, banishing Margot's doubts. Margot could still hear the pitter of sand as time slipped away from her, through an invisible hourglass that existed only in her mind; she still expected to see the now-familiar flicker in Alana’s eyes when her thoughts turned to darker memories. The only reassurance Margot had was Alana’s promise that she hadn’t lost her. If nothing else, she didn’t think Alana Bloom would break a promise.

It was a such a small, minor comfort, but Margot would take what she could get.

* * *

When Cordell told her her brother wished to speak with her, Margot’s immediate reaction was to roll her eyes. It was not the first request of it’s kind recently, and declining it had become an assertive statement on her part. These days, she barely saw Mason, and he barely saw her. They dealt with each other through Cordell, which was, if nothing else, much better than the alternative.

There was something about today’s ask which caused her to pause. She couldn’t place it-- wasn’t sure she wanted to, if it had her gravitating toward her brother-- but she found herself following Cordell up the stairs all the same.

“Ah! Margot!” Mason’s voice was as grating as ever when she entered the room. “My dear sister! You _have_ become a stranger.”

“I think we needed the space.” She didn’t feel unsettled in his presence, like she once would have-- just mildly inconvenienced.

“Did we?” Mason clicked his tongue. “I suppose your lovely Dr. Bloom put that idea in your impressionable little mind, did she?” He didn’t wait for her to object to this before asking, “how _is_ she, Margot? I suppose you’ve been helping her to pack.”

Behind her, Cordell cleared his throat. Her eyes did not flicker from Mason’s face.

“Pack?”

“Oh, yes. Not long now. She flies out Friday, doesn't she?” Mason’s tone was too teasing to be sincere: he knew perfectly well Margot did not know what he was talking about.

Her pride, and a sudden tightening in her throat, would not allow her to ask him. She turned sharply, only for Mason’s voice to call her back.

“She _has_ told you, hasn’t she?” He frowned. “Oh, Margot! Oh, dear Margot!” He broke off into dark laughter. Out of the corner of her eye, Margot noted Cordell fidgeting, uncomfortable. “This is why I always tell you people can’t be trusted-- women especially. You should listen to me more often, you know.”

He caught on fairly quickly she would not beg him for information and that if she left, he would miss out on the satisfaction of being the one to deliver the news. “She’s had a better offer, I’m afraid.” Mason gave a heartfelt sigh that had Margot twitching in irritation. “Isn’t it just _frightening_ how easily some people can be bought?”

“What do you have on her?” Her voice was perfectly even, but her insides were tremoring with repressed emotion. She didn’t want to give her brother the satisfaction of seeing her frightened, but the possibility that it had been threats from him that had Alana acting strangely had her curling her hands into tight fists: _What had she gotten Alana into?_

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, _she_ came to _me--_ after deliberating for a little while, of course. She does play hard to get, your Dr. Bloom.”

Margot felt dizzy with disgust. “I don’t believe you.” Her eyes flicked to Cordell, whose expression implied he would rather be in hell than in Mason’s office in that moment, standing between the two of them.

“Ask her yourself. I can’t imagine she’ll deny it, not now she’s gotten what she was after.”

The implication of this was lost on Margot: she couldn’t believe Alana had planned this from the start, couldn’t imagine the other woman laying beside her at night and quietly calculating a bargain with her brother. The person she knew wasn’t that callous, and she certainly wasn’t fixated on money.

Mason was not talking about paying Alana off though-- he was talking about paying her to _do_ something, _go_ somewhere.

“Oh, Margot,” Mason crooned, a horrible high-pitch taunt, “You didn’t really think you’d ever be _enough_ for her, did you?”

The room around her felt so faint, the world slipping away from her as her eyelids fluttered closed, eyes burning from glaring so hard and for so long. When she opened them, only a second later, everything was too crisp and too real, her mouth dry and her world perfectly still.

“People like that, Margot, they’re never satisfied, especially not with people like _you_ , it’s just too... _disappointing_.” She knew Mason would have shrugged if he could. “Still. You mustn’t blame yourself! Some of us just aren’t meant for relationships.” Light from the table lamp reflected in his eyes, highlighting the devilish gleam there. “Not to worry. You’ll always have me.”

In her mind’s eye, she imagined lunging across the desk, hands hungry for Mason’s throat. She could slip Papa’s penknife from Mason’s pocket, make a thin cut against his skin, drain the blood from him, just like how she’d watched Papa slaughter the pigs. In reality, her feet felt stuck to the ground: the slightest movement might bring about tears, which was something she wished to avoid venomously. She felt frozen in place, trapped, yet Cordell still found reason to step in front of her.

He must have said something, must have asked her if she was alright, because Mason began hissing that he shouldn’t fuss over her. “My sister is more resilient than to let a silly little thing like feigned feelings _ruin_ her, aren’t you, Margot?”

She didn’t feel ruined, but then she didn’t feel much in that moment **\--** couldn't really, around all the rage rising inside.

“She doesn’t look well,” Cordell said, his hand on her arm, and Margot didn’t think she had the energy to flinch away but she did, and with such viciousness that he almost recoiled. “Margot?” She watched a vein pulse in his neck as he looked at her so intently it bordered on intrusive.

She just wanted them both to stop-- stop talking, stop watching her, stop poking for a reaction. A caged animal cornered by two hungry hunters, lashing out would have come so naturally; she could savage them the way they had just so callously feasted on her.

But she didn’t: not because there was even a fraction of her that believed they didn’t deserve it, or because she cared enough about winning this fight to worry that Cordell would overpower her. She walked away, for now at least, because however must she detested them, their betrayal was an expected one.

She knew not to expect any different from Mason: he’d made it his mission early in his life to destroy hers. Cordell was just another henchman, hungry for her brother's acknowledgement and the power that came from that. Alana was different, or at least Margot thought she was: Alana had worked her way into her life, into her head and into her heart.

And now she was leaving? At Mason's request? Presumably content to accept money to do something she hadn't even _mentioned_ to Margot?

Downstairs, she downed a glass of whisky to drown her self-pity, barely registering the burn in her throat around everything else, wishing she could scratch the re-occurring thought from her mind: _if her own family hadn't cared about her, how on earth had she expected a perfect stranger to?_

She paced, and when Alana’s name flashed up on the screen of her cell phone, she thought nothing of letting it fall from her hand and stamping on it until the ringing was silenced and she felt the pieces under the sole of her boot.

Then, she poured herself another drink and waited.

* * *

Alana was no fool: she knew why Margot didn’t answer the phone, just as she knew she was the very last person Margot wanted to speak to right now. This did not stop her from driving over to the Verger’s-- because she knew Margot would not come to her -- and knocking on the door like she had so many times before, this time wondering if it would be the last.

Cordell was the one to greet her. “I don’t know if you should be here,” he warned, but she stepped in past him nonetheless, and he seemed to know better than to stop her.

“Margot?” She found her in the living room, with a glass of whisky in her hand and half a bottle on the table beside her. Margot’s eyes fell on her and the fire was lit and blazing, but all Alana felt in that moment was the iciness coming from her stare. “ _Margot_.”

Cordell did not follow her into the room, and Alana was quick to shut the door behind her so he could not overhear, either. She took a step toward Margot, who took another long sip of whisky, holding it in her mouth for too long as she looked right through her.

“Let me explain.” Her voice was desperate already, which was not how she’d wanted this to begin at all, but as she crouched in front of Margot, it was all she could manage.

“ _Explain_?” Margot’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Oh, don’t worry about it. My brother saved you the bother.”

Of course he had, and Alana knew she didn’t deserve any less-- but Margot certainly did. “I’m sorry," she said honestly. "You should have heard it from me.”

“That’s assuming you _were_ going to tell me. Or was I to go to your house one day and find you'd gone?” Margot blinked, expectant. “Where you going to email me from Europe?”

“Of course not.” Alana shook her head. _Why hadn't she just told her herself?_ “Whatever he’s said, it isn’t what it looks like.”

“It _looks_ like you’re working with my brother.” Margot set the glass to the side. Slowly, her glare flickered back to Alana. “It _looks_ like I was wrong about you,” she said coolly.

Alana quickly took the seat opposite Margot. “I know it must be confusing: I know this came out of nowhere, but I’m asking to just hear me out.”

“I have no interest in listening to more lies.” Margot stood up, stood over Alana, and maybe she thought she was intimidating but all Alana could see was the woman who curled around her at night to keep warm; the woman who woke her up with kisses. “Cordell shouldn’t have let you in. I’d like you to leave.”

“No. We have to talk about this _now_.” She did not care how desperate she sounded or how pathetically panicked: she didn’t want Margot to go to bed angry at her; she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep herself. “I need you to try to understand why I’m doing this. What did Mason tell you?”

“Enough for me to see that you’re as easily bought as everyone else.” Margot’s smile was cold, bitterness seeping from her. “I suppose I should have known.”

“You’re angry at me, and you have every right to be. I should have told you in the first place--”

Margot turned away. “But then you couldn’t use me to get to my brother, could you?”

Alana was horrified for a second, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she reminded herself that Margot felt all kinds of betrayed: she was lashing out, saying things she didn’t mean. She took a deep breath and told herself she had to maintain some sense of calm, to reassure _herself_ even if it failed to reassure Margot. “You know that’s not what I was doing; you _know_ how much I care about you.”

“Not as much as you care about finding Dr. Lecter, evidently.”

Alana shook her head, even though Margot's back was still turned. She rose to her feet, but did not dare move forward: space was important, regardless of how much she wanted to cross it. “I can care about both things. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“They are when one involves leaving for _Europe_ and working with my brother _._ ” Margot glanced over her shoulder, barely even looking at Alana. “I told you this would happen.”

“What?”

“I knew he’d find a way to get rid of you.” Margot's resolve was not convincing Alana in the slightest. “I didn’t think you’d be so willing.”

“I’m not doing this _to_ you; I‘m certainly not doing it _for_ Mason-- I’m doing it because it’s the only thing I haven’t tried.” Alana crossed the room to where Margot was. “You’ve said yourself I’m not all here, not all the time. I need to change that. I need to be able to start over, and for that to happen, I need to finally be able to close the door on the rest of it.”

“Then _go._ ” Margot turned to her-- turned on her-- with wide eyes, lit by a fierceness that would have been enough to push her away two months ago. “Go fix your life-- but _don’t_ expect me to be in it when you come back.”

She was determined not to allow Margot to push her away like this. No matter how vicious Margot became, Alana was not willing to let her win this part of the war. “Try to understand,” she said, voice soft. “I don’t want to leave, but I need to feel like I’m doing something.”

It wasn’t that she thought she was integral to Hannibal being found-- she certainly did not-- but having a hand in putting it all to rest just might prove to be integral to _her_ recovery. Distancing herself hadn’t helped-- now, she had to face it head on.

Margot was quiet for a long moment. Then, looking up and looking away, she said dryly, “Convenient timing, isn’t it? You going to Italy?”

Alana looked away. “I’m not going to deny that we need the space.”

“So, what, you just break up like a normal person?” Margot’s eyes were wide when she turned. “You don’t need to run away to Europe to get rid of me. I’m not going to _follow_ you.”

A part of Alana, an embarrassingly immature and selfish part, wished that Margot _would_. “It’s not that. It’s not _about_ you. I have things I need to deal with, too.”

“So what, you can go after someone who hurt you, but _I_ can’t?”

Alana shut her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “Don’t compare it, Margot. It isn’t the same--”

“Of course it is!” Margot took a few steps back, reaching for the glass behind her with hands that shook. “Someone hurt you, and now you want them to be punished. You want to be the one to punish them. That’s exactly what you told _me_ was unhealthy.”

It wasn’t as black-and-white as that and Margot knew it. Alana wasn’t fooled for a second into believing she’d been naive enough to find her distinctions as blurry, even now, when she'd had too much whisky and not enough time to think. “Mason is not your responsibility. I brought Hannibal Lecter into their lives-- I have to help get him out.” It had begun with her; it was only fitting it should end with her, too. “I don’t want him to be killed: that’s part of why I’m going. That’s the difference between this and what you were doing: I want justice, not revenge.”

“We both know you'll take what you can get.” Margot crossed her arms, and, composing herself, added icily, “I suppose the ‘reward money’ is only a bonus.”

“Mason has no intention of giving me any kind of reward,” Alana said, and she believed this, wholeheartedly, “And even if he does, I don’t want it. This isn’t about the money to me.” It was about Jack and Will, about Abigail. It was about _herself_. Except it was more problematic than that: to say her intentions were entirely selfish, or entirely noble, would be a lie. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

Margot shut her eyes before turning away again, and Alana’s chest ached. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said, quietly.

“I know you don’t, but you should.” Alana looked down. “I want you to hear this from me.” When Margot didn’t interrupt, Alana took it as a cue to continue. “Doemling has power of attorney over the business.”

“You think that is _news_ to me?” Even if it was, Alana knew Margot’s pride wouldn’t allow her to portray her ignorance

“No-- but _I_ had a hand it. I only mentioned it to Mason, briefly, but he’s quite susceptible to suggestion, and there had been talk of it for some time.” She paused watch Margot's shoulders stiffen. “In return, Doemling’s willing to give me more than enough money for a fresh start.”

“Well,” Margot said, her voice barely above a whisper, but sour enough to sting the wounds she’d made with her tongue earlier, “How nice for you.”

“A fresh start _for you,_ Margot.” She took a step forward, another step closer, and she knew reaching out would be met with rejection but _God_ she wanted to take Margot in her arms and hold her until she understood. “You mentioned a deal with Doemling, but anyone who wants to keep themselves on Mason’s good side wouldn’t knowingly give you to ability to _really_ leave. You can’t trust him-- I had to be the one to make that deal.”

“You told me I was supposed to do it on my own and then you interfered,” Margot’s voice was still so quiet, so devoid of emotion.

“I wanted you to leave, on your own terms, in your own time. I didn’t mean--”

“You thought the only way I could be happy is if I did what _you_ wanted me to do. You thought if you stayed long enough you’d be able to convince me that leaving was my own decision.” This was said viciously, as Margot turned to glare at her in accusation. “Did you think I was susceptible to suggestion too?”

Alana shut her eyes. “That’s not it. I wanted you to be independent, and I still want that for you, but I also want you to be safe. I’ve told you before-- that’s _more_ important.” Her breath caught in her throat. “ _You’re_ more important, and you know that.”

“My independence was important to _me_.” Margot’s voice hitched, not from tears, but from anger, and Alana took a step back. “You told me you wanted me to do this for myself."

“I was wrong. I didn't want you to depend on me because I didn't want to depend on you.” If they kept their respective issues so separate, if they handled them alone, Alana had tried to convince herself their relationship could survive inside the vacuum they created-- but life didn't work that way. “I was wrong, Margot. You can't live your life like that: it's okay to need people.”

There was a long pause, and then Margot's voice was small and horribly strained, “But you don't need _me_.”

“I did. I needed you so badly, and you needed me, and I’m so glad we found each other.” Tears filled her eyes-- so much for maintaining calm. “But you know that we can’t be _all_ we have.”

“I’m not enough for you,” Margot said quietly, and before Alana could object, she looked up darkly. “I didn’t _want_ to be your everything, I certainly didn’t ask that of you. I’m working on things-- I’m trying to build something for myself.”

“No, you’re not. You’re repeating the same cycle you always have, and you’ll keep doing it, because as dangerous as it is it’s almost safe to you: it’s all you’ve ever known.” She'd been honest like this before, and maybe Margot had even listened then, but Alana knew she'd gone on to condone the very cycle she was condemning, just like everyone else. “You almost left, before, when you were pregnant. You were willing to leave for the baby. Now, I’m asking you to leave for yourself, and if you can’t, then leave for me.”

“Why would I do that?” Margot asked, tone completely numb again, and that evoked much more guilt than any anger or hurt ever could. “You won’t stay for me.”

Alana shook her head, causing more tears to spill over while Margot simply blinked at her like she was nothing more than a stranger. “I’m not ending things. I’m _not._ You know how I feel, but if you’d just listen--”

“I’ve spent too long listening to you.” When Alana reached for her, Margot wasted no time at all flinching away. “Don’t _touch_ me.” She looked to the door. “If you want to leave, if it matters so much to you-- _go._ ”

It killed her to concede defeat: she didn’t want to walk away, upset as she was, because she knew how that would translate to Margot. But the longer she stayed, the longer one of them ran the risk of saying something that couldn’t be forgotten, couldn’t be forgiven.

“Margot,” she began, but then she stopped short, realizing that for the first time, she had no idea what should come after that.

“Just go. _Leave,_ Alana!” Margot had never yelled at her before, and it was enough to startle her, but not as much as the hurt that flashed in Margot’s eyes did. She crossed the room to the hallway, and Alana knew what she was doing before she heard the front door being unbolted. “Get out of my house.”

“Margot,” she heard Cordell’s even voice, and it was enough to bring Alana to her senses. While Margot glared at Mason’s ‘doctor’ Alana stood at the door. She put her hand on Margot’s arm, to draw her attention back to her.

“Promise me you won’t do something we both know you'll regret,” she pleaded.

Margot’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t owe you _anything_ ,” she said bitterly, and when Alana had stepped back, barely on the doorstep, she slammed the door closed, leaving Alana to her particularly cruel imagination as punishment.

* * *

 Cordell’s hand on her shoulder couldn’t have come at a worse time. She turned, a thickness in her throat, with eyes that were bloodshot from the effort of restraining tears.

“It’s for the best,” Doemling said quietly, a firm frown on his face. “It’s better this way. She would have hurt you eventually. It’s the way things work, Margot.”

What did he know about the ways things worked? What did he know about Alana? The irony was that, while he thought she’d been just like him, out for herself, for the money, she’d had a plan that was intended to help Margot. He didn’t know a damn thing, he just hoped to exploit her in a moment of anger.

Now the numbness had worn off, Margot was angry-- God, she was angry. She felt used and betrayed and confused and fucking _hurt._ There was so much she couldn't see around it all, so much of what Alana said was already forgotten, burned to ash by the fire in her mind. One thing that hadn't changed was that Alana wanted her to leave-- not leave with her, but leave everything she had behind. Her only motivation for this was Margot's safety. Patronizing as it was, had anyone else had such a clear focus on her before?

“Family is forever,” Cordell added gently. “Your brother loves you.”

Margot blinked at him, and she did not see a physician, did not see an imposter with money on his mind. She saw an abuser, a monster in a mask, no different from those she had spent a lifetime with. He had spent years sexually molesting innocent children and now, he stood an inch from her, trying to turn her against the only person who had ever made even an iota of effort on her behalf.

Disgusted, Margot couldn’t resist: “Neither of you even _understand_ what love is,” she said, and then she pulled away from his hold. She expected him to follow her when she retreated back into the living room, but he did not. Alone again, she sank into the chair by the fire and put her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t let out the sob building in her throat.

To Margot, there wasn't much of a difference between Alana leaving and Alana leaving _her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: kara-la9
> 
> special special thanks to Shea as always for beta-ing and endless patience and anyone who has been particularly kind about this fic. ^^


	20. the darkness reminds us where light can be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all don't know how long i've been waiting to write Jack into this.

She knew where she was going before she even got into her car, a certainty she supposed was a year overdue by now. She wasn’t burning bridges, like both Vergers seemed to think: she was making amends. The truth was, Margot was the last in a long line of people who Alana had supposedly let down.

She drove out to Jack’s with Abigail’s journal in the backseat as an excuse, and her fist didn’t shake when she rose it and knocked on the front door. Only when she stood on his doorstep, watching the hall light flicker on as he made his way to the door, did she realize returning a forgotten piece of evidence for a case he was not technically allowed to work was not cause enough to wind up here so late at night after almost two weeks of hostile silence.

He answered the door to her in a chequered robe and dark pyjamas, shadows under his eyes and cuts on his chin from shaving with shaking hands. “Alana?” he said, voice strained—not groggy from tiredness, but raw, as though he had not spoken aloud in a day or two, a kind of isolation she could still recall. The internal dispute as to whether or not he was happy to see her flashed across his face, but she knew he would not turn her away. “What is it? What happened?”

She supposed he thought what her brothers had: that Hannibal might contact her, or that something was going on with Will-- that she would be a piece in the final puzzle.

She didn’t want to be a part of the jigsaw: she wanted to help complete it.

“Nothing,” she said, followed by a shaky laugh as she held the journal tighter against her chest. “I’m sorry-- I didn’t realize how late it was. I didn’t disturb you, did I?”

Jack was watching her, _measuring_ her presence to determine it's weight, and she was reminded of the fact they’d always been able to see right through each other. Once, Alana had resented this, hated that Jack could use how she felt to his advantage-- now, the familiarity was welcome, had somehow lifted a weight from her chest so she could breathe again.

“Takes more than a spontaneous late night visit to disturb me.” His eyes fell to the journal, but he seemed to stop himself before he dared to ask, moving aside to open the door wider. “You wanna come in?”

She might have rejected this offer on any other given night, but being alone with her thoughts after all that had happened with Margot was not appealing, and both she and Jack both been left to their own devices for too long. She followed him into the house, down the hallway to the kitchen, struck by home homely it felt,still holding the journal close as if it were her final lifeline. When Jack offered her a drink, she couldn’t help but remind him curtly that she was driving.

“Good, because all I have is milk,” he said gruffly, opening and shutting the fridge door as he took out a full carton. He did not look at her as he poured two glasses, but he said, over his shoulder, “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in two days, before you ask.”

She managed a sad smile as she took the glass he offered her. “Two days?”

He shrugged and motioned to the kitchen table, where he then took a seat across from her. “It's been one of those weeks.” He smirked. “Scratch that, it's been one of those lives.”

Her head and her heart ached in unison. He was joking, rather than sincerely feeling sorry for himself, but she knew there was truth under his guise. “Oh, Jack.”

His smile quickly faltered. “Don’t look at me like that, alright? I’m working on it.” He was being defensive, but he had reason to be, considering how she’d reacted in the past when it came to decisions she disapproved of. Alana might have handled things differently, but that was an easy observation to make when she hadn’t had anywhere near as much to handle: she was in no position to judge him, not really, and she could see that now. “Anyway, you didn’t drive all the way over here to hassle me about my drinking.” He nodded toward the journal and took a sip of milk. “Did you find anything in there that helped you make sense of it all?”

She cast her eyes down, ran her fingers over the hardback edges, blunted from being stored somewhere, spine wrinkled from heavy use. “I didn’t read it, in the end.”

“No?” She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely surprised or just humoring her.

“I tried to. I opened it so many times, but then I’d see her handwriting and I just— _couldn’t_ \-- it feels wrong.” She looked up to find him staring at her. “You were right. There are just some things I’m better off not knowing.”

If she'd been alive, Abigail would have rejected venomously such an invasion of privacy. It bothered Alana enough that it had been pawed over by Jack, Will and at least a dozen other agents who had never even met her: she had no more right to it than any of the rest of them. 

If the only thing Alana could do for Abigail was to visit her grave every now and then with flowers, to loose time thinking of the woman she could have been while everyone else fixated on the girl that had been lost, to grieve for her when the rest of the world had forgotten, then that was what she would do. Analyzing the innermost thoughts of a suffering teenager who had been emotionally damaged by every father she'd ever known did not make her any better than Freddie or the other vultures who saw Abigail's tortured life as Lifetime Movie material; exploiting Abigail's only source of outlet for her own supposed comfort was a disgusting end to their psychiatrist-patient relationship. They both deserved better than that. 

“It was our wedding anniversary this past weekend,” Jack said quietly, after a long beat of silence. He titled the glass in his hand, eyes cast down. “I planned to scatter Bella’s ashes, but I didn’t. They’re still in the urn, upstairs, where I left them after the ceremony.” He didn’t need to look up for Alana to know there was a tear in his eye. “She prepared for everything, except for me to live without her.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral, Jack.” Out of everything that happened after, she sometimes thought that she regretted that part the most. She hadn’t known Bella, but she had known that Jack had enough to deal with, without burying his wife as well. As much as she'd lost, she couldn't fathom one of that magnitude-- she was grateful for this, even if it added another layer to her guilt.

“Don’t worry about it. You were barely out of hospital yourself.” He sat up straighter, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have expected you to come. The way I was then, I probably wouldn’t have noticed even if you had.”

Alana frowned. “That’s not the point.”

He waved his hand, a magic motion that she wanted to believe could minimize all that had come before, the months of cold pleasantries, the selfish lack of effort. “I’m the same-- I should have visited you more. You _and_ Will.”

“We all made a mess of things.” They could go back and forth for hours, blaming themselves instead of blaming each other, a courtesy she wasn't sure either of them really deserved. “We didn’t want to lean on each other too much, so we didn’t lean at all.”

Jack nodded, accepting this as a fitting explanation. “Will’s gone back, you know.”

“Already?” ' _I’ll come by and see you before I go again,'_ he’d said when he'd shown up at her house what seemed like a lifetime ago. Just as this false promise began to sting, she thought of him on her doorstep more recently, the dogs at his ankles, his expression betraying disbelief as he took in the sight of Margot Verger in her living room.

“I drove him to the airport on Monday,” Jack told her, filling in a much needed blank while she gathered her thoughts together.

Had he been building up to a proper goodbye, but Alana hadn't been listening? Had he wanted to talk of the search for Hannibal, but she hadn’t wanted to hear it? She’d been quick to dismiss him amidst her realization that he had been the father of Margot’s baby-- so quick, she hadn’t thought to ask him about Italy. She would have marveled at how drastically her priorities had shifted if it did not mean Will Graham was once again playing hero in a foreign country alone.

“I hear you won’t be far behind,” she said carefully.

Jack gave a little half-smile. “I never got very much past you, did I?”

“I didn’t come here to lecture you about that,” this seemed to surprise Jack, and his expression had the desired effect: it made her laugh, just a little-- but just enough. “Although I _don’t_ think that would be uncalled for.”

“Probably not,” he admitted fairly.

“I came here because I feel lost.” Saying it aloud made her sound weak, but Alana didn’t care. The last year had brought out more than enough strength in her; more strength than she knew she had. “It comes so naturally to Will, to go after Hannibal. And the bureau just put the pieces back together, like none of it even happened.” She sighed, looking to him not for advice, but for acknowledgement that she was not the only one who felt so disconnected from both the past and the future. “I’m useless here, but I worry that going to Europe is more self-destructive than _pro_ ductive.”

“The bureau are very good at pretending none of us ever existed.” Around the bitterness, Jack managed to shake his head again. “Thirty years of work down the drain in one night, Alana. Swept up under the guise of ‘compassionate leave.’ And for what? He still got away.”

She felt sorry for Jack, but not as much as she felt sorry for herself. Nothing about the Bureau’s dismissal of her had been even remotely compassionate.

“It could be worse,” Alana said, for no other reason than she thought the sheer ridiculousness of it all might make him laugh, “The dear Dr. Chilton could have stepped into your job.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re kidding me. He’s profiling again?”

Alana nodded, feeling the familiar lump in her throat form, just like it always did when she let herself waste time on replaying the whole scenario. “Oh, yes. They even had him in as a guest lecturer, or so I've heard.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alana.”

She shrugged, but it took almost all the energy she had. “It’s done now.” She let out a deep breath and fixed her eyes on his. “I saw Purnell, too. She suggested I helped Hannibal. Did you know people think that?”

“She was trying to spook you, to keep you quiet-- you know how she is.”Jack’s tone was very resolved, very serious. It left no room for argument, and it was so different from what Alana had had in way of a reaction from Margot. It was the kind of reaction that was not born from blinding affection, but from professional respect, from honesty, and it was exactly what she'd needed.“No one really believes that,” Jack said firmly, and while logically, of course she’d known that all along, to hear someone else voice such confidence in her was still so very reassuring. 

It made her think of what Zeller had said to her about Jack:  _ You know he thought the world of you professionally.  _ A small comfort on a day from hell, and she smiled weakly to herself as she realized it was a pattern she was repeating. 

“I met someone; I’ve been _seeing_ someone. And I thought I could make it work in spite of all of this, but I can’t.” A headache throbbed between her eyes, and she wondered why she was telling Jack Crawford this, if she just hoped that he too understood what it felt like to only be able to give yourself to someone you cared about in pieces, because so much of you was wrapped up-- defined even-- by work and experiences. “I made a mess of it, because I can’t get past what happened.”

“Whoever he is, I’m sure he’ll understand,” Jack said evenly-- Alana didn’t quite know where to start with amending that sentence.

“I think that’s part of the problem. I _expected_ understanding for too long.” Alana looked up. “No one understands, not really, not unless they went through it, too. You can’t ask somebody else to put themselves in a place where they’ve never been. If they’ve been through something too, and if you can correlate the your experiences to the point where you can accept and empathise with each other, then that’s just lucky.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ll find a way to make it work, after all.”

She would, there was no doubt about that. Like hell was she about to let Margot slip through her fingers because of money and misunderstandings. Her relationship with Margot had not been a mistake, just trickily timed, and she’d be damned if she would allow it to be chalked up as one for the sake of pride.

Alana couldn't help someone who didn't want to be helped, but she  _ could _ love someone who was truly terrible at pretending that she didn't want to be loved.

“I have to put out the fire behind me first.” She titled her head to look at him. “When are you going to Italy?”

He didn’t pretend feign ignorance, although she only knew because of Will, but he did frown. “I don’t want to drag you into something--”

“-- Stop. Stop right there.” She folded her arms. “You don’t get to protect me, Jack. I’m going whether you want me to or not. I know how Will is. This isn't a one-man job, you know that. You need all the help you can get.”

Jack’s mouth turned up at the corners. “I wasn’t going to tell you not to come. It’s not like you listen to me anyway.” He was joking, and it felt _nice_ , to be sitting in his kitchen drinking milk together and teasing as if their lives had not be shattered by one wrecking ball after another.

“I need you to promise me things will be different this time.” Her eyes narrowed. “You want a trial. You have questions, just as many as I do. He can’t be punished, and he can’t answer our questions, if he’s dead, Jack.”

There was silence before Jack broke it, clearing his throat. “Listen-- the last time, the three of us...we were on different pages,” Jack began.

“We weren’t even reading from the same _book,_ Jack,” she corrected. He gave a short huff of a laugh.

“Yes, alright, you’re right. Things will be different. God knows what Will’s up to, but I’m not out for blood. Tried that last time, it ended in ours.” She wasn’t wholly convinced, but Jack was the one who had lied _least_ : his word had to count for something. “I know we could do it, the three of us, if we did it right.”

* * *

When she got home, sometime after 1am, she called the Vergers home phone. No one answered, unsurprisingly, and she told herself Margot was screening her calls out of anger and that Cordell was doing the same out of wishful thinking to deter her from returning, rather than the thousand much darker possibilities that hid in the corners of her mind, but that did not make it any easier to sleep.

Winston sat up with her, a warm weight under her arm where he lay on the couch, even breathing and sympathetic eyes. She wonder if he recognized the look on her face by now, the expression of someone who needed comfort amongst the chaos they'd created.

She'd call again tomorrow; drive by in the afternoon, if all else failed, to check for police cars; if she had to, she'd email Heimlich and ask him to check in with Margot. Margot deserved the space to work out her anger, yes, but Alana wasn't sure which Verger was in greater danger as she did so. 

She didn't trust that Margot could calm down enough to practice self-preservation right now, and she didn't think she was above taking her frustrations out on Mason, either. She thought about calling the police, an anonymous tip-off, but she didn't think that would assure Margot's safety any more than simply hoping for the best would, either.

Of course, she knew she was not responsible for Margot’s actions, if she did happen to do something that would stain her future out of bitterness, but she _was_ responsible for Margot’s feelings—at least right now. Leaving her in such a state with Cordell and her brother was not Alana’s finest moment, but it had all happened so quickly, a door slamming in her face: a physical manifestation of the other ways Margot had shut her out.

It was not the first time she’d been kicked out by Margot, but it was the first time she felt she deserved it, which was perhaps why she didn't even try to get back in.

She considered driving back over there, knocking on the door until one of them gave up and let her in. She didn’t know what she would do or say when she got there, though. If anything, she was more certain about Italy now than she was before, after talking to Jack. When she thought about what Margot said, ‘ _you won’t stay for me_ ’ a lump formed in her throat all over again.

Winston gave a little whine as he rubbed his head against her and she ran her fingers through his fur and sighed. “What am I going to do with you, hmm?”

Adam would look after them, if she asked him to. He had a small yard, but she didn’t think he would mind staying at hers for a few days. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, but she didn’t think it would be long enough to cause him a great inconvenience: besides, he’d spent most of their childhood relentless pleading with their parents for a dog, to no avail. He'd offered his help relentlessly over the last twelve months-- this was a practical way he could take care of things for her. He'd be glad of just being made useful, probably.

She was supposed to be meeting Andrew and his new girlfriend, Natalie, for dinner tomorrow, and her heart was no longer in it but her head certainly was. Natalie owned real estate for rent, apparently, mainly in Delaware. It was how she'd met Andrew-- he'd been thinking of moving there after being asked to fill in for a friend, mentoring students of a programme run by the Delaware College of Art and Design. He'd been hesitant in telling Alana about this, and quick to insist he would be close enough to come back if she ever needed him, but she'd been fixated on the fact that Delaware was the perfect distance away-- a _safe_ distance-- for Margot to stay until she returned from Europe and they could put together a more concrete plan.

How she would even broach this with Margot, she had no idea. Time and space would usually do the trick, but she was leaving on Friday—as per her agreement with both Mason and now Jack—and she thought that in itself would bring with it an abundance of space.

Leaving without saying goodbye was not an option, and she still had Cordell’s check to cash and give to Margot: even if she tossed every single bill into the fire in her living room and told Alana exactly what to do with her Delaware plan, it would be her decision-- Alana just hoped she would not be one made out of spite.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: kara-la9 
> 
> thanks for the continued support and patience ^^


	21. i just wanna love you, don't wanna lose me

For two days, Margot carried a box of matches with her.

Every so often, she would slip it from her pocket and strike a few, watching each delicate flame flicker its way into something much greater. Fire, as an element, had always captivated her. So destructive yet so beautiful.

She contemplated dropping the lit match to the ground, to the carpet, but instead, she let it dance closer and closer until the edges of her fingernails were black and her fingertips stung from the brief singeing.

At night, she dreamt of drowning oak furniture in ethanol and standing back with crossed arms, watching the whole house go down in flames. She felt the heat of it on her skin, heard the roars in her ears, and she woke up with a damp forehead and a mind dizzy with power, but she did not feel satisfied.

Dr Heimlich called by the house on Tuesday morning, after calling her twice the day before. She watched him from an upstairs window, turning away when he took a step back to look up at the house for signs of life.

“Your psychiatrist is here,” Doemling said quietly, appearing in the doorway behind her, as if she couldn’t hear the banging on the door.

She looked to him with a blank expression, “Tell him I’m  _not_.”

It was the most conversation they’d had in the forty-eight hours since she threw Alana out, and Doemling made no attempt to extend it. He disappeared again, and a few moments later she heard low voices downstairs. She imagined he was charming Heimlich much like he seemed to have charmed her brother.

Whatever Doemling said to Heimlich was enough to make the psychiatrist leave, even if he did pull out his phone on the way back to his car. Margot didn't believe for a second that he was calling anyone other than the person who had connected them in the first place.

Mason had taken to calling out for her, a long, low droan of her name, which he repeated while she heard Doemling pause on the stairs.

Her guess was that Doemling was hoping she’d kill Mason—maybe out of such anger that she would be careless enough to get caught, and leave him with whatever scraps of their estate and fortune that Papa's will did not cover. It was a neat solution, if darker than she'd originally thought him capable, but he underestimated her self-control.

The thought of facilitating his satisfaction, of playing into his hands, was almost as repulsive to her as the thought of it all going to the Westboro Baptist's at her late father’s request.

If anything, this situation had only made her hate her brother even more, and yet what hope did she have of killing him now? It was so frustrating she’d almost cried about it. She almost wished it was just her and Mason again—no Cordell, no Alana. Life had been easier when she’d only had herself to think about: connections were overrated.

She came out of her room and started down the stairs, Doemling immediately springing to action as if he had never stopped. “Dr Heimlich would like you to call him when you can,” he said as they passed each other.

She knew what would happen if she didn’t, so she waited fifteen minutes, until she figured he was closer to Virginia than Maryland, and left a message saying she would see him at their next appointment. She didn’t ask why he’d come over—nor did she need to—and she didn’t acknowledge that she’d avoided going to the door. When he called back, she didn’t answer.

Sometime later, Margot was in the stables, when she heard the door click shut and Alana, whose presence she’d been hoping to avoid by calling Heimlich, stepped in.

She’d heard the car pull up but hoped Alana would go to the house, instead of the stables—a ridiculous thought, really. It was Margot’s own fault Alana knew her so well.

Margot didn’t turn to face her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Alana approach her, but she was wise enough to keep enough physical distance.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” Alana pointed out, not bothering with an idle greeting, her voice strained from the effort of holding back her frustration. “I don't know how many times I've called, but you haven't taken a single one.”

Well, she had destroyed her cell phone in anger. “Yet you’re still here.” Margot eyed her up and down, darkly and briefly, before turning back to the lock the stall gate. “It seems you’re not nearly as good at taking hints as you think you are.”

This bitterness might not have made perfect sense, but it was owed, in her opinion. Had Alana expected her complacence, her blessing? If she’d been after encouragement to do something reckless and downright ridiculous, if she’d wanted a pathetic promise to wait, then she’d misjudged Margot.

Her words seemed to get the best of Alana as she moved closer. Margot assumed her patience was running thin. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” Alana said, voice stern, firm, all obvious conviction. When their eyes met, finally, Alana did not falter like Margot expected. “I mean it. I don’t care how angry you are-- you don’t ignore me like that. You  _know_ I worry.”

There were so many things wrong with that: for someone who wanted space, Alana sure called an awful lot; for someone who was supposed to worry, she was able to leave without much regret, and how exactly was she anticipating their line of communication maintaining despite different time zones?

Yet only one part did Margot deem worthy of questioning. “ _Again_?”

Alana’s expression shifted to one of soft exasperation, all wasted worry vanishing. When she spoke, her tone was impossibly tender. “Yes, Margot,  _again_ —because people fight and people make up and they might stay angry for a little while, but they stay  _together_.”

Perhaps Alana wanted to take her in her arms, but Margot backed away, despite the familiar feeling that stirred inside her at Alana’s words. “This wasn’t a disagreement over groceries. Don’t minimize it.”

“I’m not.” Alana sighed, shut her eyes and then, after a deep breath, opened them again. “I’m not  _trying_ to. Just listen to me, Margot. Give me a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

Margot was still hurt, still angry, but she was no longer drunk and no longer duped.

This time, she held the cards.

Despite this, she led Alana outside, glancing over her shoulder to make certain that she followed; she sat down with her, outside the stables on the same bench where they had once sat and spoke of friendship-- and there was irony there, but it was lost on her as they sat with twelve inches of tension between them, space she couldn’t fathom crossing.

Margot was willing to let Alana spend a half hour defending her actions, because now she was here, she wasn’t ready to watch her leave again yet.

“I want to apologize for what I said the other night,” Alana began, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck as the evening breeze made her shiver. “I know it may seem like it came out of nowhere. You were upset and it was too much to expect you to deal with all at once.” When Margot didn’t answer, she continued, quieter, “the way I spoke about you leaving—it wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have pressured you like that.”

 _Leave for me,_  a request that had lingered in Margot’s mind just long enough to be rejected. Wasn’t it  _less_ healthy to give up everything she had for someone she’d just met? She’d been disappointed that Alana had gone as far as that; she had to wonder what kind of person would ask her to choose.

But the more she thought about, the more she came to believe that it was someone who actually believed there was a right answer; someone who’d stopped being a psychiatrist for long enough to just be a frustrated girlfriend, reduced to something so childish out of desperation that she wouldn’t have been capable of feeling if she truly didn’t give a damn.

Margot, on the other hand, had not asked Alana to stay, in so many words, not because she didn’t care, but because she knew the answer would be no.

“You think I’ve given you mixed messages, and maybe,  _unintentionally_ , I have.” Alana turned to stare at her: Margot fixed her eyes on the house in front of them, thankful it was bathtime for Mason and that meant they were at least afforded some privacy, a respite from being watched. “But you’re smarter than that, Margot. You know that what it really comes down to is the fact we have very different definitions of power.”

“I find your definitions increasingly selective,” Margot said dryly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alana frown. “I have a very  _fixed_ definition of safety, and this place isn’t a synonym by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Neither is Italy,” Margot said, not missing a beat. “Have you thought about that?” She turned to look at Alana. “Or is it only  _my_  decisions which warrant scrutiny?”

“Can you drop the defensiveness for five seconds, please?” Alana rubbed her forehead, but her lips turned up, ever so slightly, a defeated smile. “You’re  _infuriating_.”

Margot couldn’t help but think that Alana wouldn’t have to deal with it much longer. “ _You’re_ a liar.”

“I wasn’t honest with you, not completely, and I should have been. It was wrong-- but I’m being honest now.” Alana’s eyes pleaded for patience. “I’m going to Italy. It won’t be forever, it probably won’t even be for long, and I  _will_  come back. I meant it when I said you won’t lose me to this.”

It felt like that was exactly what was happening, although Margot couldn’t say that. It was vexing, no doubt about it, that Alana was so resolved, yet there was a definite ‘but’ hanging between them, directed at her.

And then it came: the trump card to ease Alana’s guilt, in the form of a reasonable collection of hundred dollar bills held together with an elastic band. Alana dropped it in her lap when it became clear Margot could not physically take it from her.

“I know it’s not what you want, but it’s enough for a fresh start, for a little while. The last thing I wanted this to come down to was money, but I'm not naïve. I know starting over is expensive and I know it isn’t safe for you at my house.”

Margot watched the wind tease at the edges of the notes and wished it would blow them away. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“My brother’s girlfriend has a house in Delaware you could rent. They sent me pictures. It’s small, already furnished, but it’s nice.”

“You’ve really planned this, haven’t you?” This came out more venomously than Margot intended. “Have we not had this discussion before? You making decisions for me?”

It was why Margot was in therapy with Heimlich, after all. Alana hadn’t taken no for an answer then, either.

“I haven’t decided  _anything_ ,” Alana was quick to insist **. “** This is your choice. It’s not blackmail-- I’m encouraging you to do something that I think will be beneficial to you. Whether or not you choose to do it, I’m not just giving up.”

“You’re encouraging me to run away,” Margot corrected pointedly. “As if I’ve done something wrong, as if I’m a victim, while you run  _towards_  your problems on a one-woman crusade to save the world.” She fixed her with a steady glare. “Mixed messages is an understatement.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Alana sounded offended, which Margot couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes at. “You think it’s brave to put yourself through it, again and again, but I think it’s braver to break away, to start over. I’m not ready to do that yet, and maybe you aren’t either.” Something in Alana’s voice broke, and her eyes hadn’t filled with tears but Margot didn’t think it would be much longer before they were. “I know you’ll leave, someday, because I know you want a life beyond all of this. I know you know you’re worth more.” Alana’s hands reached for hers, squeezing when Margot’s stiffened, following when she tried to move them away, pulling her back. “This isn’t me trying to save you, Margot. This is me trying to  _love_  you.”

Margot’s eyelids fluttered shut—momentarily lost in touch and words and it wasn’t fair that Alana could be so persuasive, so reasonable, so sweet in her delivery. What chance did she stand up against someone like that?

What chance had she  _ever_ stood?

“Your brother has done monstrous things to you and you were failed horribly, by countless people. You deserved much better, not least of all from me.” Alana inched closer, hands still clutching hers, and Margot didn’t have it in her to move away. “He may be paralyzed and he may not have the manpower right now, but that does not mean living with your brother isn’t a toxic, abusive situation-- Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were  _so_  wrong to let you believe otherwise.” Alana paused to stare hard at her. “But you are  _not_  too far gone, Margot.”

Margot ducked her head, furiously working to blink away tears she didn’t want to admit Alana had evoked. “Is it so awful to want him to suffer? To want what should have been mine?”

Alana shook her head. “No. If anyone ever deserved revenge, it’s you.” She gave a soft sigh. “But there are things you can’t avenge, things he took that you can’t get back. Hurting Mason will make you feel righteous, and it might give you a sense of control, but it won’t make you feel better. It won’t make this right or healthy. You can’t even the scales like that.”

Margot straightened up, sniffing. “Sounds like surrender.”

“It’s self-preservation. You are more important than what he’s done,” Alana pressed her forehead against Margot’s cheek, “And I don’t just mean to me.”

The anger and hurt Margot still felt shifted just enough to give way to sentimentality. She would have resented Alana’s attempts at flattery if she could stop herself from believing them.

She pulled away from Alana enough to look at her, and to  _really_ look. How could things between them have been so simple, yet so complicated? Was it foolish to think this relationship could exist outside the world they'd built for themselves from the wreckage of their lives? Was it worth getting in deeper, now Margot had had a glimpse into what it felt like to have lost it?

Before Alana had come over, Margot had almost convinced herself that she'd been right when she said things between them simply couldn't last. They would never satisfy each other, not really, never be content without some kind of sacrifice: Margot would have to leave, Alana would have to stay.

But now she looked at Alana, and she thought of herself, and she realized stubbornness didn’t mean a fucking thing if it brought you right back to where you started, if it meant you lost more than you ever stood to gain. She couldn’t stop Alana from making the same mistakes again, but there were cycles of her own she could break.

“What are you thinking?”

Alana’s voice was tentative, obviously trying not to appear too hopeful, but Margot knew her face would fall if she said anything other than was she did, a second later: “I need time to pack.”

“Of course.” Alana was smiling before she remembered to correct herself, before a thought struck, and then she frowned. “You are doing this for you, aren’t you?”

She was doing it because her alternatives were even less promising: she could avoid her brother and Doemling for as long as it took one of them to snap, or, worse, until she snapped herself and gave them what they wanted; she could pause her life for Alana, with uncertainty even when she did return-- would it ever be safe for Alana to be with her if she stayed?

She was doing it because she could finally feel herself able to breathe, as if she’d been holding her breath these last few days, suffocating slowly despite all the distance she’d kept from the people in her life. Emotional isolation was like the fire she saw at night: it devoured oxygen just as quickly.

“A change of scenery would be welcome.” Margot looked over her shoulder, to the stables. “I’ll need to call one of the old workers to come and take care of things.”

“We can go tonight, if you think you’ll be ready by then.” Alana didn’t seem surprised that she’d changed her mind.“The house is empty-- we can pick the keys up on the way.”

“Tonight.” Oddly, Margot didn’t anticipate it being so soon. She supposed it had to be: hadn’t Mason said Alana was leaving on Friday?

“Do you think you’ll talk yourself out of it?” When Margot didn’t answer, Alana shook her head. “The longer we sit on this the more time Doemling has to figure it out. I don’t want him to be a step ahead of us.”

“He’ll come after me. He’ll follow you.”

“He shouldn’t. He’d be better off pretending he had nothing to do with either of us,” Alana looked up, “but I’d rather not take the risk.”

Risk-- _risk_ \--the whole thing was a  _risk_. Alana thought it was worth it, evidently. Margot wasn’t entirely convinced, still.

She slipped her hand out of Alana’s and stood up, Alana quickly doing the same. They walked toward the house quietly, with Margot trying to focus her thoughts on what she had packed last time she’d intended to leave, the things she couldn’t live without: it was a superficial list, material things of great expense bought in rebellion that held no sentimental value.

She had at least at least a hundred things she wished to bring, but not a single one she couldn’t leave behind.

* * *

 Margot packed slowly, if a little sullenly, but did not ask for her help, and Alana resigned herself to the silent treatment she was receiving. When, half an hour into it, Doemling appeared in Margot’s doorway, shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, she crossed the room to stand in front of him, blocking his view a moment too late.

He seemed to pale. “What on earth is going on?”

Margot didn’t look up from the delicate folding she was engrossed in. “I’m leaving.”

“No.” Cordell gave a wet laugh, eyes flicking around the room a little frantically. “You’re not.”

“Yes. Yes she is.” Alana met his eye and held it.

“With what--?” he trailed off, frown turning to a smile as he seemed to realize. Next, the panic visibly kicked in. He fixed Alana with what she supposed was intended to be a glare. “I didn’t say you could give the money to her.”

“You didn’t specify that I  _shouldn’t_.” Not that she would have cared if he had. “She has more claim to it than you or I.”

She expected Margot to pipe up and make a monotone remark about talking about her as if she weren’t here, but it did not come.

Doemling lowered his tone, a dark hiss, “Do you  _realize_  the position you’ve put me in with her brother?”

She didn’t particularly care. If he’d finally met his match with Mason, then it wasn’t on Alana’s conscience. “Perhaps you ought to me more careful with who you exploit,” she urged.

“I’m not the only one who should be careful.” He scowled. “He’ll send his men after both of you, you know.”

If Doemling was prepared to assume that she was taking Margot to Italy with her, then Alana was content with that. It would buy them some time, at least. She took his warning as a threat: one she’d turned over in her mind on the drive over.

“His men? Or what’s left, once Hannibal’s finished with them. Not to count the few who will inevitably go rogue and decide it pays better over there than it does here.” She lifted her head. “I can’t imagine they’ll feel very secure about this hypothetical reward we all know they won’t receive once they find out a stranger has moved in on Mason’s finances.”

Doemling’s eyes narrowed. “You came here, with the intention to ruin things, and I won’t let you get away with it.”

“If I wanted to ruin you, I would call the police right now and tell them to do a background check. If I wanted to ruin you, I would tell Mason what you’ve been up to so that he can get whatever contract you’re after annulled.” She glanced over her shoulder, to Margot, who was doing a worse job of pretending she was not hanging on every word than she was of packing. “If I  _really_  wanted to ruin you  _or_  Mason, I would leave her here.”

She let that all hang between them, and she didn’t feel frightened as much as she felt righteous. He was intimidating to vulnerable children no doubt, and he thrived off of that kind of fear, but he was nothing Alana hadn’t seen before, nothing new or horrifically unique.

Margot had been right when she said he didn’t have the stomach for killing. He was a molester, not a murderer. She didn’t need to resort to dirty tactics to combat him: sometimes, the threat of honesty was enough to render someone weak.

Doemling nodded toward Margot. “She’ll come back, you know. I’ve seen them interact. The two of them, they play off each other. They don’t know how to exist separately. You can’t undo thirty years of that kind of co-dependency.”

She bit back a scathing comment about that being his ‘professional’ opinion, resisting the urge to ask if he was posing as a psychiatrist now, instead choosing to remind herself that he was desperate; desperate to persuade her that her attempts of helping were futile, that they would always fall flat.

Alana knew better: Mason might have needed Margot in a warped way, but it was not reciprocated. It wasn’t that Margot couldn’t live without her brother, it was that she’d been taught to think-- and allowed to believe-- that the life she could have couldn’t possibly be worth it.

She’d meant it, perhaps more than she’d meant anything else she had said, when she’d insisted Margot was not too far gone. As her psychiatrist, as her girlfriend, as an objective outsider, Alana would not give up.

“I’m ready,” Margot announced, zipping the last of her bags, abandoning half of the contents of her wardrobe splayed across chairs, the bed, the floor.

Alana took two of her bags wordlessly and fell into step behind her, pausing to turn toward a sound from one of the other rooms: Mason calling out for his sister. Doemling met her eye and glared, before retreating into the room; Margot did not stop to look behind her, did not hesitate as she took the stairs.

Doemling materialized again when they were putting her things in the car, his parting gift a final gift: “You’ll regret this, one day.” He looked over the car to Alana. “ _Both_  of you.”

Alana didn’t think there was anything that could make her regret Margot, and, even more than that, she didn’t think she could be forced to regret helping someone who clearly needed it. Her morals had taken a beating, yes, but they were far from distorted. “No,” she said, opening the door of her driver’s seat, “I won’t.”

When Margot slipped in beside her, uncharacteristically quiet in the face of Doemling’s warnings, Alana turned to her. “If you want to talk to Mason before--”

“—No.” Margot’s voice was tight, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her fists curling and uncurling in her lap. “Just _go_.”


	22. i need this more than i'll ever need you

For the first twenty minutes of the drive, Alana offered olive branches of conversation which Margot chose not to take, made jokes about Margot arguing with her car radio that fell flat, before finally relenting and allowing them to lapse into a difficult but incredibly predictable silence.  
  
At Andrew's, Margot rejected the invitation of meeting him and Natalie, instead choosing to stay in the car.  
  
“You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?” Andrew was dubious, but Natalie nudged him and handed Alana the keys.  
  
“Ignore him. It’s the second house with the white door. If you get lost, give me a call.” They’d exchanged numbers at lunch the day before. Alana met her brother’s eye and hoped her own conveyed her approval, not that he needed or wanted it.  
  
She thanked them and got as far as the door before Andrew pulled her into a hug. The last time he’d held her, he’d had tears in his eyes and she’d been fresh out of surgery and there had been no space between them for words. Now, he stepped out of the hug with a blush on his cheeks and a gruff shrug. “Drive safe, alright?” he muttered, as Natalie’s arm slipped through his.  
  
When they’d crossed the state line, she and Margot took it in turns to inhale deeply and pointedly, as though about to speak, until they passed a motel with a vacancy sign.  
  
“I don’t know the roads in the dark. You don’t mind spending the night here, do you?”  
Alana had already pulled in when she thought to ask: her eyes ached from lack of sleep and she knew there was a snowball in hell's chance of Margot offering to drive. She might have agreed to this, but she was anything but complacent in it, something Alana understood too much to resent.  
  
She watched as Margot dug out the money from the front pocket of the bag at her feet. She hadn’t even thought to put it in her purse: it didn’t feel like hers.  
  
Alana leaned across Margot and zipped the bag back up, money and all. “I’ve got this.” She paused. “I’ll go check us in?”  
  
She would have preferred Margot come with her, eyes flickering briefly to the keys in the engine as she contemplated taking them with her before she cursed her tendency to over-think. What would taking the keys achieve? If she couldn't trust Margot alone for ten minutes in the parking lot while she checked them in, how could she trust her in the middle of nowhere indefinitely?  
  
Margot's blank look suggested she shared a similar thought process. Alana sighed and left the keys were they were.  
  
Not long after, she ran a new keyring around her fingers as she led the way to their room, Margot close behind. Inside, there was a double bed, and although she knew it was ridiculous to feel presumptuous given how many times they’d slept together by now, she still felt the need to explain it had been the only type of room left.  
  
Tonight, any earlier intimacy didn’t seem to matter anyway. After separate showers, they slipped into bed together, half-dressed. They lay with at least a foot of space between them and didn’t touch. It was eleven minutes which felt more like thirty when Alana finally spoke.  
  
“If you want to go back in the morning, I’ll drive you.”  
  
She was grateful Margot did not try to deny that the thought had crossed her mind. Honesty was a step forward. “To what purpose? The prodigal sister: that might be you, but it’s not me.”  
  
Rolling over to face her in the darkness, Alana softened her voice. “Nothing prodigal about it. You can blame me.”  
  
“And have Mason’s men leave you for dead in a street in Italy?” The coolness in her tone had the hair on the back of Alana’s neck standing up on ends.  
  
Alana knew there was no way Margot had missed Doemling’s threats. “They have greater concerns than me, Margot, if Will and Hannibal are milling around. Besides, don’t think I won’t be availing of whatever police protection Jack manages to secure.”  
  
Margot’s voice was small in the darkness. “And what if Hannibal kills you? If you poke a beast, you can’t really believe he won’t bite back.”  
  
Alana blew out a breath. She was exhausted with this conversation, but not with Margot. “Not a beast-- just a man, remember? I’ll keep my distance. I won’t be actively involved. I’m not self-destructive.”  
  
“I don’t believe you. I’m going to hear about you on the news, the tragic Dr Bloom who couldn't keep from caring too much and wound up dead for her troubles.” Margot turned her head toward Alana. “Is that the reputation you’re after?”  
  
Her question gave way to a pause. Alana wanted to reach out, but decided against it in favour for gathering up this last piece of Margot’s reluctance. “Is that why you’re so opposed to this? You think I’m going to get myself killed out there?”  
  
Sharply, Margot turned her head again to stare at the ceiling. “Don’t say it like I’m being paranoid. He almost succeeded last time, indirectly or not. Why push him to finish the job?”  
  
“Margot,” Alana said evenly, “That’s not what I’m doing.”  
  
“It’s not what you intend, but you know how these things work. How long until you’re lying in a pool of your own blood again? How many times do you need to be burned before you realize you’re the one striking the match?”  
  
There was another long silence while Alana waited for Margot to register what she’d said. Finally, she gave in and connected the dots for her: “I’m going to take it you missed the irony of that statement.”  
  
“It’s different.”  
  
“You don’t want to lose me because I’m important to you. I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you, because _you’re_ important to _me_.” She wanted to inch closer, but it would be too much, too soon. “We can’t protect each other, but I think it’s telling that we haven’t stopped trying.”  
  
“Difference is, you won’t listen to me.”  
  
“I’m going because it’s what I feel like I need right now. If you feel like going back is what you need, then I’ll accept it. I can’t support it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop supporting you.”  
  
She'd tried to maintain healthy distances before, to stem the flow of her feelings, and that had resulted in missed signs and fractured relationships. There was a point where objectivity fell somewhere sort of caring. If she'd paid closer attention to Abigail, to Will, instead of trying to force herself to remain neutral; if she had allowed herself to do more than simply advocate fiercely for them, their lives could have been so very different.  
  
She’d been wrong to believe there was such thing as caring too much.  
  
“I take it you want the same in return.”  
  
Alana smiled. “That would be nice, yes.”  
  
Margot’s voice was too full when she spoke again. “And you’ll be here, tomorrow? You won’t have left me with the car and directions?”  
  
“I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” Alana wondered which one of them she was really sparing with this, however.   
  
Despite being exhausted, she didn’t sleep much that night. They watched each other instead, from various angles as they took it in turns to roll over, the vacancy light in the parking lot casting a green glow on their silhouettes, but bright enough for them to commit each other’s profiles to memory: as if they had not spent the last two months memorizing each other.  
  
A dissatisfying last night together, but anything more would have felt forced, fake. Nothing would be enough, and so they saved themselves the pain of trying.  
  


* * *

  
The following morning, Alana bought breakfast in a nearby cafe and struggled not to choke on her coffee when Margot asked about coming with her.  
  
“ You must have considered it.” Margot did not seem as hostile in the light of day—at one point, they’d woken up with intertwined limbs, which broke the ice if nothing else-- but she was still distant. “You thought of everything else.”  
  
“ I would be taking you from one volatile situation to another.” Alana was grateful that Margot did not point out that was exactly what she was doing.  
  
“ What you said last night,” Margot looked up to her, coffee forgotten when she’d much rather put Alana on the spot, “if I asked you to turn around right now, what would you do?”  
  
Alana didn’t hesitate. “I would turn around. I will, if it’s what you want.” There was a pause, and Alana dared a small smile, even though something inside her deflated in disappointment. “Surprisingly, this isn’t actually a hostage situation. You haven’t been kidnapped.”  
  
Margot did not speak. When they’d finished eating, they went back to the car.  
  
“ Where are we going?” Alana asked, barely suppressing a sigh of pure relief when Margot told her to keep driving.     
  


* * *

  
They stopped at a store to buy basics: toiletries and enough food to do Margot for a few days, at least. Alana seemed content to shop for her-- it probably made her feel like she was not shirking her self-appointed responsibility-- so Margot hung back and feigned just enough interest to keep Alana from questioning her.  
  
She didn’t feel like a hostage, but she didn’t feel entirely free, either.  
  
The house was nothing special. Neighbours on one side, which seemed to come as a relief to Alana, but the street was quiet and the area underestimated; unintrusive. It’s small garden would be easily kept, she supposed. It was smaller than she’d hoped, but then she only had three bags of belongings-- perhaps anything bigger would have been even more pathetic.  
  
Alana dropped one of Margot’s bags on the wooden floorboards of the hallway and turned to her. “What do you think?”  
  
Slipping into the living room (the entire room could be crossed in less than six steps-- she counted) Margot ran a finger along the fireplace for the sake of collecting dust to rub away with her thumb. “It needs work.”  
  
“Well that’ll give you something to do, I suppose,” Alana said flippantly, obviously not wishing to dwell on the flaws. Margot supposed interior design was as good a start as any if it provided a distraction. “Andrew and Natalie said they’d come by tomorrow and set you up with internet and anything else you need.”  
  
Margot wished she’d kept this last piece of information to herself. She pulled a face. “Wonderful.”  
  
“They want to help, but they won’t bother you. Andrew’s the kind who checks in just to check in, so you shouldn’t worry.” Alana tucked her hands in her pockets and nodded toward the fireplace, too neat to have been used recently. “I saw some wood outside. You want me to help you fix a fire?”  
  
“I can manage that on my own.” Margot turned. She met Alana’s eyes, watched them fill with frustrated tears when she stated, in a perfectly even tone, “You can go now.”  
  
Alana had already slammed the door behind her when it occurred to Margot that this was not how she wanted things to end, to leave off. Alana obviously shared a similar thought: Margot watched from the window as she paused on the doorstep to throw her head back in desperation. She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, until Margot opened the door and allowed Alana to wrap her arms around her instead.  
  
The embrace was warm, despite the cold air, and Margot was struck suddenly by the fact they simply hadn’t done this enough: how many times had they had sex, kissed, held hands-- Jesus, they’d even slow danced together. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling they should have spent longer just holding onto each other.  
  
In that moment, with Alana’s head forehead pressed against hers as they both fought not to cry, Margot wanted that time back-- wanted _th_ _eir_ time back-- more than she thought she’d ever wanted anything.  
  
The kiss that came next was too brief, too haste, and not worth letting go of each other in Margot’s opinion. Alana’s voice was filled with so many broken things when she whispered goodbye, and she didn’t promise to call and neither did Margot ask her to, although it was silently presumed that she would-- if this house even had a landline.  
  
Margot went inside so she would not have to watch Alana leave-- futile, really, when she still had to hear the car drive away.  
  
She sat on the window seat of a strange living room in a house that was not by any means hers, for more than an hour, until it really resonated with her that Alana would not double back.  
  
Margot went for a walk to clear her mind, to get her bearings, and was quickly reminded that her sense of direction had always been less than stellar. It took an hour, maybe two, but she eventually found her way back to the house-- not back _home_ , not even close, yet  triumph still fizzed inside her. Not once during her excursion did she look over her shoulder, but she didn’t make eye contact with anyone she passed, either.   
  
She went back to the house and cursed the gas cooker (who didn’t have an electric in this day and age?) before settling in the living room with a fairly tragic excuse for a fire, the result of damp wood not stored somewhere dry. She read a book she’d taken from Alana’s house weeks ago by the light of candles found under the kitchen sink.  
  
In the end, she was relieved she didn’t have a cell phone, or any real means of communication. She would have been disgusted with herself if she hadn’t been able to keep from calling Alana. She wasn’t even confident what she would say, what direction her thoughts would take if she forced herself to ground them.  
  
They’d spent longer than this apart, and Alana had not even left the country yet, and so it made no sense whatsoeover that Margot missed her already.

 


	23. i'll be just fine, out of my mind

She was cried out by the time she got back to Baltimore.

It didn’t matter that she’d done all she could possibly be expected to, given the circumstances. It didn’t matter that, technically, she was the one who’d gotten what she wanted. With each mile she put between herself and Margot, any false sense of triumph she'd felt earlier had faded.

What did matter to her was the weight in her chest, the same pressure she’d ignored each and every timeshe drove away from Abigail at Port Haven; every time she'd left Will with Chilton at the Hospital-- like she’d let go of something she couldn’t turn back for, a kind of helplessness that had her palms itching-- idleness and emptiness. She felt defeated by all the things she still could not do.

She had known she couldn't be Margot's everything, but only now did she realize how much of her had wanted to be-- healthiness and emotional independence be (hypothetically) damned.

Adam was waiting on her porch when she pulled into her drive, standing to greet her with folded arms and a half-hearted glare that reminded her of her late mother. She thought about backing out of the driveway for only a split second before she remembered she could no longer seek solace twenty minutes away at the Verger’s.

“Don’t start, Adam-- _please_.” She locked the car and ran her fingers through her hair as she walked toward the house, passing him on the porch steps. “I can’t tell you how much I don’t need this right now.”

“When were you going to tell me?” A loaded question if ever there was one, because there was so much she hadn’t told her younger brother-- she sincerely wasn’t sure what _exactly_ he was referring to.

“I was going to call you tonight,” she admitted. She’d planned to tell him everything, or as much as she needed to, depending on how the conversation went. Perhaps naively, she hadn't considered that Andrew would get to him first.

“Oh, well, in _that_ case.” He sounded hurt, rather than angry, but Alana wasn't quite capable of feeling any worse than she already did. Opening the door to half a dozen hungry dogs, barking on top of barking, she left it for Adam to follow her inside.

“Do you still have that spare key I gave you when I moved in?” It had been four years ago, a precautionary measure when she was less responsible, before she'd learned to wholly trust herself. She’d given it to him to keep safe because Andrew hadn’t been around; because she hadn’t had anyone else.

Now, she looked up from filling the dog bowls with water to see him pull a face. “I don’t know. I must have, somewhere. I’ll take a look.” When she rested the full bowls on the floor and the dogs swarmed to them, Adam took a step closer. “Why? You’re not moving her in, are you?”

She could feel the weight of his stare; she didn't miss the way he'd used the pronoun-- harsh and awkward, as if it did not fit in the context. As if he had some reason to disapprove already.

Alana rose up from scratching Applesauce's ear to stand face-to-face with her brother. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Yeah, bullshit you did.” He narrowed his eyes. “So who is she? Or is that a state secret too?” When Alana didn’t answer, he hesitated, eyeing her measuredly. After a moment, he took her silence and the redness around her eyes as reason to pull her into his arms. “Oh, Al,” he mumbled into her hair, voice immediately soothing, all earlier resentment gone.

She didn’t break down again, like he probably expected her to, but she gave into the hug nonetheless. Adam only ever meant well, and she didn't think his frustration with her was particularly unjustified. It might have been her life, her secrets, her choices, but it was childish and naïve to believe she was the only one they affected.

She stepped away before he did, an apology burning in her throat that she swallowed against. “I’m going away for a while: Italy, and no, before you ask, I can’t be persuaded otherwise.”

She looked away because she'd already watched the exasperated disappointment that this admission brought fill the eyes of too many people she loved; she'd witnessed Jack quickly right himself so as not to hurt her pride; she recalled Andrew's hug the previous night, his body tense, his hold tight as if he hoped to anchor her here. Margot's reaction, everything from the anger to the hurt to the raw fear for her safety was fresh in her mind.

As much as she had understood and been moved by these reactions, she had had quite enough of being made to feel guilty for doing something she thought might actually help her find closure.

Her eyes flicked to the dogs, eating and drinking happily, the occasional huff of a growl as they took it in turns being a touch too greedy. “I wanted to ask you if you could look after them. I hate to put that on you, but I really don’t want to send them to a kennel. They just didn’t settle last time.”  
Adam's voice was quiet, but heavy. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m aware of the imposition,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t desperate.”

“I’m not talking about the dogs,” he said, and of course she’d known that, but that hadn’t stopped her from wishing he was. “I’ll do whatever you need, you know that, but Alana-- I mean, this is serious. What the hell are you _thinking_?”

The string of patience inside her was fraying now, any light of hope almost lost under each shadow cast on her decisions by someone whose approval she would have preferred to have. With Andrew's question, the string broke in the middle; the light flickered back life.

“I’m thinking that I’m really fucking tired of people telling me what a terrible idea this is. I’m thinking everyone is very quick to tell me I shouldn’t go, but not so good at offering an alternative that doesn’t amount to me sitting back and waiting for more people to die.” She wasn’t angry at Adam for judging her, any more than she was at Andrew for being sceptical or Margot for feeling abandoned. She’d stopped expecting them to understand, right around the time she’d stopped trying to justify her decision. As tempting as it was to take everything out on her brother, Alana had more self-control than that. Her voice softened, “I’m _thinking_ that it would be really great if the people I love could bite their tongue, just this once, and trust me when I say this isn’t something I’m doing on a whim.”

Adam was silent, shaking his head in quiet disapproval, before reaching past her to the cans of dog food stacked on the counter. “Is this the only brand they eat, or can I buy any?” It wasn’t a question as much as it was a reluctant blessing, and it may not have been a prerequisite but it was _so_ welcome all the same.

For the next twenty minutes, she talked him through caring for the dogs. They would destroy the house if left to their own devices for too long, so she was relieved when he offered to stay at hers, at least until they adjusted to her absence.

“What if one of them takes off while I’m walking them?” Adam asked, stricken by the thought, but Alana reassured him that they were much too accustomed to pack life to venture too far. She tested and re-tested him on each of their names, until they were all responding to his voice just as they had learned to respond to hers. They were comfortable enough with him already that she didn’t feel that she had to worry.

She felt reassured and replaceable all at once.

When she let them out, Adam leaned against her kitchen counter with his head in his hands. “I take it your--” the faint blush that stained his cheeks told her exactly where he was taking this conversation: he wasn’t quite ready to identify Margot as her ‘girlfriend.’ Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, “ _that woman,_ the one you told Andrew about, isn’t happy about this either?”

“Her name’s Margot,” Alana offered helpfully. “And no, she isn’t.”

“Margot. _Margot_.” Adam looked thoughtful, as if he were testing the name on his tongue, to see how it sounded. Obviously still struggling, he looked up. “How did you meet?”

“Do you remember I told you a woman had called me, asking for my help?”

Adam's eyes widened, and then he frowned. “I thought she was a patient.”

“She was supposed to be.” It may not have worked out _like that,_ but that didn’t mean it did not work out. “Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about her and started being about us.”

Adam let out a weak laugh. “I didn’t even know you liked girls.”

“I’m still your sister,” Alana said, a little too defensively. She had no reason to believe her brother was even remotely homophobic, but she’d barely slept and she’d spent the morning crying and just _talking_ about Margot led her right back to a broken voice in the darkness of a motel room; of arms around her on the doorstep of a strange house, the tightness of Margot's hold a wordless plea not to leave her.

Everything in Adam’s face softened. “Exactly,” he said gently, “you’re my sister, and I don’t want you to get hurt again-- women can be just as bad as men, Alana.”

“I know.” Margot was a spitfire when she wanted to be, Alana was under no illusions about that. The thought made her smile, nonetheless. She looked at Margot's fierceness with pride; she admired her resolve; she was amused by her stubbornness. She hadn't fallen for her because she was an easy alternative to her last relationship, but instead in spite of the fact she had the capacity to make her life just as complicated. “Hannibal hasn’t turned me off men if that’s what you're thinking. I can’t explain it, Adam. My feelings just...happened, and I don't know if she'll ever really admit it, but I know she feels the same.”

Adam gave a sad sigh. He shook his head, resigned. Then, he looked up, a sharp suspicion still shining in his eyes. “But she made you cry,” he said simply.

“ _I_ made me cry.” She reached for her brother’s hand and squeezed it. “I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to actually walk away from her.” She recalled the walk to her car from the house, lungs tight and breathing shallowed, tears burning a path down her cheeks, heart hammering to broken beats. It had been a horrible moment from hell, but it was not a patch on how it would have felt to leave Margot with Mason and Cordell. “But, right now, staying's worse than leaving. I _need_ to do this.”

“I just want to know that you’re going to prove yourself right and not because you want to prove everyone else wrong.”

It would be a lie to say that Purnell’s accusations did not still ring in her ears sometimes; that she had not felt sidelined and underestimated by Jack and Will. She wanted to change perceptions about her, of course she did, but that was not what this was limited to.

If only it were that vain of a quest, she might still have been able to talk herself out of it.

* * *

Margot had misunderstood the concept of isolation, it seemed. She’d spent the majority of her life as a lone-wolf type, an outcast content in solitude. She’d been ignored and left to occupy herself, going days, weeks perhaps, without speaking to anyone and without missing contact. Living alone should have been better than familiar: it certainly should not have felt lonely.

She barely slept the first night, the wind outside and a creaking in the attic conspiring to keep her awake. She cursed a teenage interest in horror movies for the goosebumps on her arms as she wrapped herself tighter in a duvet that smelt like dust. Mid-morning, when a young child next door started to cry, the sound muffled through walls made of plaster, she wondered what kind of family they were and thought of her brother.

He would know she was gone now; he would have noticed. Cordell would be fumbling for an excuse, probably. Maybe he would tell Mason she was at Alana’s: Margot tried to recall the maximum amount of nights she’d spent with her, away from home, to determine how long it would take for Mason to find this suspicious.

Alana’s brother appeared, as promised, in the afternoon. He was alone, and only knocked on the door once. When she didn’t answer-- watching from the window instead-- he took a few brisk steps backwards, toward his car, and she contemplated letting him go, before it occurred to her that he would likely call his sister and that Alana hadn’t left the country yet.

Her last goodbye was raw enough to still sting; Margot wasn’t quite ready for another.

She opened the door a crack. “Yes?” she said, loud enough from him to hear, staring at him expectantly. He blinked, surprised to see her or surprised that she’d addressed him as she had. She could only imagine what Alana had told him about her.  
“Uh, hey. I’m Andrew--”

“Alana’s brother. Yes, I know.” She’d watched him watch _them_ from the window as they pulled out of his driveway two nights ago. “She said you’d come by today.”

He nodded and stepped forward, closer. “It’s Margot, right?” He didn’t look like he needed confirmation on this, either. They were both well-informed. “Natalie had a family thing to go to, and we didn’t want to leave you another day without gas and internet. I have a guy coming later to set you up. He said he’d be here around two, but I can stay until then. You probably need help to fix the place up, right?”

Before he’d arrived, she’d been busying herself counting and dividing into piles the money Alana had given her from Cordell’s cheque, only thinking to count it now. She had been pleasantly surprised that her solitude was worth quite so much, but not amazed or foolish enough to think she had a long-term solution.

Disappearing inside, aggravated but unsurprised when he followed her, she picked up a small pile she had arranged. She held it out to him, wordlessly.

He shook his head, catching on after a few seconds. “Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for your girlfriend.” Margot raised an eyebrow. “Is she not the one who owns the house?”

“Uh, yeah, but hey, it’s alright.” When she pushed it toward him again, he took it from her and laid it gently on the edge of fireplace. “It's fine, honestly. Alana settled it with her.”

It would have made her laugh if it wasn't so infuriating-- so much for independence. “I’ve seen Alana’s credit statements. She’s not in a position to be _settling_ anything for me.” Only after she had rolled her eyes did she realize how carefully Andrew was watching her. “I wish she’d stop trying.”

Andrew laughed, but there was an edge to it that halted Margot’s attention. “That’s my sister for you,” he said, his voice betraying a hardened type of resentment.

It occurred to Margot that she was not the only one struggling with Alana’s choices. Maybe her own brother was too: maybe he had been, from the sidelines, for some time.

“Have you spoken to her?” Margot said, when what she really wanted to ask was, _does she miss me yet?_

“Not since I gave her the keys to this place.” He looked around. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s not what I’m used to.” She was being dry intentionally. The only topic she was interested in discussing with him was his sister.

He smirked. “No. I guess not. If you think this is bad, you should see _my_ new place. Natalie thinks she’s doing me a favour. It’s a good thing I’m not with her for her taste in decor.”

“Alana told me you’re an artist.”

Andrew laughed. “I bet she said that with just a hint of disdain.”

Margot wanted to laugh herself at how ridiculous Andrew’s comment was: she wished the greatest issue she had with _her_ sibling was disapproval. “I think her disappointment stems from the state of your relationship, not your occupation,” she said coolly.

Well, _that_ shut him up. She offered him a coffee because she was making one for herself anyway and it did not seem like he planned to leave anytime soon, and he sat down at the small kitchen table as if he belonged there.

“How are you for groceries?” he asked, after a moment tearing both their thoughts away from Alana. “There’s a store in town I was going to stop by today to get some things for myself. I could take you, if you wanted.”

“I’m fine.” She would have said this even if she wasn't, but Alana had been thorough, and there was aconvenience storea few blocks away she'd found during her walk the evening prior if she was desperate.

“That reminds me,” he dug in his coat pocket while she placed a cup of coffee in front of him. He took out a cell phone, an older model of a budget-brand pay-and-go android. “I’ll get you a phone card later,” he said, leaving it on the table between them as he took a long sip of coffee.

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think anyone will be calling me.”

“Alana will, as soon as she gets there safe. She’ll probably call you three times between the airport and the hotel, if I know her.” He smiled, a little fondly, as he said this. When he caught Margot staring, he rolled his eyes. “She went on a foreign exchange in high school. It was only for a week, but I'd say she spent a small fortune on pay phones. Our dad placed bets on how many times she would call a day.”

Probably around the same time, Margot’s father had been placing bets with _her_ brother on how long it would take her to cry out if he stuck his knife into her back. Papa always won-- even when Mason guessed correctly.

“I’ll pass the number on,” Andrew continued. “And I guess you’re going to need a car. I’ll get her keys before she goes and you can use Alana’s.”

Margot wanted to know why he was being so accommodating: what was in this for him. In her experience, very few men-- very few people, in general-- came to the table with no agenda of their own.

“What do you want?” It was better to be upfront, in situations like these. If she’d learned anything from her dabbling in business, it was when and where the call came to be frank.

Andrew hesitated, looking down at the mug in his hands. “My sister asked me to check in with you.”

“You barely check in with _her,_ ” Margot pointed out, unapologetically.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, maybe I feel bad about that.”

Margot wasn’t sold, but she admired the fact he did not immediately pour his heart out to her. She eyed him carefully, considering. “I don’t know what your sister has told you, but I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good, because I can’t think of anything I'd rather do less.” He shrugged. “But I’m in the middle of moving out here too, so I don’t know anyone yet, and Natalie has a bunch of friends she goes out with all the time. I can’t exactly tag along, and it gets really fucking depressing drinking alone and grumbling about being the black sheep of my family.”

“I know it does,” Margot said evenly. Something in his eyes flickered at her agreement, a curiosity, an interest. It was nothing like the buzz she got when she surprised Alana, but it was the closest she would get until she came to her senses and came back to her.

“Well then,” he said, “maybe we could do that together every now and then.”

Even if it only meant that she did not have to buy her own alcohol, Margot did not think it was the worst suggestion she'd ever heard.


	24. oh love, get me out of the cold

Alana expected Mason to have cancelled her flight the moment he realized his sister was gone, but he had not. She supposed he still needed the job done, although she'd begun to question if he'd ever had any interest in her having a hand in catching Hannibal or if his sole focus all along had really been driving her away from his sister.

She tried not to think that, in that sense at least, he'd won.

She checked in without incident, and waited with Jack in the departures lounge while Will screened both of their calls.

“We are doing the right thing, aren't we?” she questioned aloud, watching Jack swear under his breath as ringing turned to voicemail for the fifth time.

She’d made her decision, yes, but only now did it occur to her how uninformed that decision had been. They had virtually no idea what they were walking into in Italy: for all they knew, Hannibal would be waiting for them at the airport, Will dead in the boot of his car.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Jack did not answer her.

They were separated on the plane, last minute ticket-holders, and she was grateful that they did not have to sit in silence or fake a conversation neither of them wanted to have.

Instead, she was beside a teenage girl with blue dip-dyed hair and a smudged infinity symbol drawn on the side of her right hand in red sharpie. She wore headphones, even after her mp3 player obviously died around hour three of the flight, and scribbled furiously in a notebook Alana took to be a journal.

There was absolutely nothing about her that resembled Abigail physically, but Alana still had to suppress the urge to tell her that whatever what going on in her life was not her fault. She wondered what this girl was running away from, or what she thought was running _to_. She wanted to tell her that someone, somewhere, was missing her, no matter how much it might seem otherwise in that moment.

She let herself think about Margot. Andrew had text her her new cell phone number the previous night, with nothing else but the request to be safe. She had replied only to thank him and promise she would call when she could. He hadn’t mentioned Margot otherwise and she had not asked, although it had taken some restraint to keep from calling him and demanding to know how she’d seemed when he’d seen her.

It seemed silly to think that Margot would be anything but fine alone: she was a grown woman, and an incredibly intelligent one at that; she was not an 18 year old moving away from home for the first time. Alana had every faith in her-- she was not convinced, however, that Margot had any real faith in herself that was not feigned arrogance, a defense mechanism decades old that Alana had been able to see through only because she'd actively made it her mission to.

She hoped Margot would take this time alone to really think about the kind of life she wanted, to consider her options, to realize she _had_ options.

She considered taking up praying, if it would guarantee that Margot would not go back to her brother out of spite or boredom.

The very possibility made her stomach flip. Mason wouldn’t have her killed, and whether or not Cordell would actually harm her was still something Alana questioned, but even what they would do to her psychologically when she was so vulnerable repulsed her as much as the physical horrors they had had a hand in to date.

Leaving the dogs had been easier, but far from _easy_. The previous night, Winston and Applesauce had curled up, on either side of her, the others arranging themselves on the floor around her bed. She wasn’t sure if they were keeping her company, because Margot wasn’t there, or if they somehow sensed it was her last night with them. She listened to them whine at her ankles as she zipped her suitcase shut the following morning and was convinced of the latter.

The flight took nine hours, approximately, and by the time they landed, she was exhausted, although the extent of her day's work had been flipping the pages of the book she'd only half-read. It was dark when they crossed the runway to the terminal, and there was a definite chill in the air. Her back ached from sitting still and stiff for so long; she breathed in the smell of plane fumes and stood aside to wait for Jack, watching the girl she’d sat beside disappear into the building alone, headphones still tucked in her ears, hands in her jean pockets.

“You alright?” Jack asked her, and she told him she was, not even sure if it was a lie or not.

They collected their luggage in near-silence that she attributed to tiredness on both their parts, and when they found themselves in the arrivals lounge surrounded by foreign signs, Alana swallowed against the desire to ask if she was the only one who felt like they’d made a mistake.

Jack was waiting for his cell to switch to a European network so they could call a cab when Alana spotted a small, grey-haired man holding a piece of paper with their surnames scrawled on the front. She nudged Jack, heart beating a little faster. When he caught sight of the man she had motioned towards, he turned to her.

“Last time I spoke to him, Will said he’d have somebody meet us here.” His voice was filled with certainty, but then it almost always was. There was a reason the trainee’s at Quantico called him the Guru. He wasn’t just clever; he had an uncanny knack for taking things in his stride and minimizing even the greatest hurdle. Still, when he walked towards the strange man, Alana had to force herself to follow.

“Agent Crawford?” he tucked the page under his arm as they approached, to offer his handshake to Jack. His eyes fell to her, “Dr Bloom?” and she looked at Jack briefly before she took his hand too.

His accent was thick, but his English was without flaw as he offered to take their bags (they both politely declined) and then led them to the elevator which brought them to the ground floor car park. He explained he had indeed been sent by Will (although he had not spoken to him today, either) and that he was an Inspector working a series of developing murder cases in Florence.

Oddly, it was this which reassured her. She recalled Will mentioning something about an Inspector that knew something of Hannibal. It made sense that this was the person Will had sought out when he’d returned.

He planned to take them to the same hotel that Will was staying at, where he also had a room, for convenience sake. Jack dove in immediately, never one to waste an opportunity, with questions about the Italian murders, so Alana happily took the backseat to allow them to compare Hannibal’s US and European crimes as if it were a competition. She pressed her head against the car window, blinking out at the picturesque streets that looked so much more uninviting than she expected under the blanket of the night and thought about doppelgangers, about mirror images and parallels. Jack and Pazzi were the hunters from two different chases, united in search of their prey; she wondered if somewhere, across the city, there was someone falling in love with Hannibal's charm the way she had, ignoring warnings and instincts. She wondered if they would survive long enough to have the luxury of regret.

The way Jack lowered his voice when he spoke of Dr. Du Maurier suggested she was not the only one who had considered this. She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on the soft hum of the radio, the playing of a rock song she did not know, so that their voices would fade completely. 

Eventually, even the seemingly pleasant Inspector Pazzi grew tired of the relentless melancholy. “You’ve had a long flight,” he insisted, when they were checked into the hotel and Jack suggested they continue their conversation in the hotel bar. “We can start afresh tomorrow. Perhaps Will may be able to join us, then.”

Alana wanted to tell him not to hold his breath-- Will was wonderful at a lot of things, but she did not find him dependable, not any more. She found it surprising how desensitized she was with it all, already. She could not even find it in her to scold Jack for wanting a drink.

Her hotel room was all her own, for which she was grateful. She didn’t know who had paid for that, but she suspected Will had found a solution to his earlier money problems. How, she did not wish to know, although she was beginning to wonder if Mason's 'offer' to her had not been entirely unique.

She text Adam to say she had arrived safe and to ask about the dogs. He replied that Applesauce was causing havoc with one of the others, but that they were eating well and had behaved themselves during their walk earlier; he said he loved her and to call him if she needed anything.

The problem was that she didn't know what she needed-- hadn't a year ago and still didn't now, despite the work she was putting in to pretending that she did, despite how wholly she even managed to convince herself sometimes. What she wanted, however, did not need questioned.

The phone rang three times before Margot answered.

“Hello?” she sounded expectant, impatient, and Alana pressed her back against the wooden headboard of the hotel bed and shut her eyes.

“Hi,” she said softly. “It's me.”

“I assumed,” Margot replied, because of course, who else was calling her? Who else had the number?

Alana took her hostility with a sigh of dejection. “How are you?”

Margot made a noise of disbelief. “Do you _care_?”

“Stop,” Alana said, a headache throbbing between her eyes, much more of a plea than a command. “Margot, just stop.”

A moment of sulky silence, and then, “Well, it's not like your brother isn't giving you a full report about me.”

“He _isn't_.” Alana wished she spoke as freely with Andrew as Margot seemed to assume. “The most I got from him was your number.” She paused. “Why? Is he bothering you?”

“No,” Margot was quick to say. “He’s--” a pause, “--not awful, actually.”

Alana’s smile was weak. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I didn’t think you’d have time to call me,” Margot said, in a flippant sort of way that just made the statement all the more weighty. “Don’t you have a serial killer to catch, or something?”

“Or something,” Alana agreed, stifling a yawn. “It’s after midnight here. Even serial killers need to sleep.” What went unsaid was that the six hour time difference meant the ball was firmly in her court, if it hadn't been already. 

“And so do the people trying to catch said serial killers,” Margot pointed out, too coolly to be genuinely concerned. “So, why are you calling me?”

Tired, frustrated tears pricked in her eyes; she felt her cheeks burn. She felt stupid for calling, for expecting any reception. It was desperate and it was selfish to call, and maybe this was exactly what she deserved for the lapse in judgement. “I just wanted to _talk_ to you.”

“You could talk to me all you wanted to if you were here.”

Alana swallowed against the lump in her throat. “You know, Margot, I could do without the guilt-trip tonight.”

“Well, what did you expect?” She would have brushed it off as childish if it hadn't been _true._ “You know how I feel about it. That hasn’t changed overnight.”

She chose to ignore the part that directed blame at her: she felt bad enough. “I _expected_ to be able to have an _adult_ conversation with my girlfriend without it turning petty,” she said, defensively. 

“An ‘adult conversation’?” Margot snorted. “You expected phone sex, is that it?”

By now, Alana’s eyes were full of tears: hot with embarrassment and dull anger. “Fuck you, Margot.,” she said with voice that sounded too full, to weak, and the fact that there was no chance Margot could not also hear her hurt just made her feel worse.

She hung up, but answered without hesitation when Margot called her back less than a minute later.

“I’m fairly sure there are bats in the attic,” Margot said, voice even, but quick with the panic of someone anxious to change the subject smoothly. “Andrew said he’d take a look. It’s either that, or it’s haunted. I suppose someone must have died here-- that’s my luck, don’t you think?” 

“Probably.” Alana squeezed her eyes shut, felt her tears slip away. She sniffed. “I’m sorry; I should have known calling would upset you.”

Margot didn’t argue this, like Alana expected her to. Instead, she exhaled. “I should have known you were calling because you _were_ upset.” There was a pause. “I apologize if I ruined the mood.”

Alana laughed a little darkly. “There wasn’t much of a mood to begin with, if I’m honest. I was hoping you would supply that.”

“I think I can survive a little longer without you before I’m desperate for some transatlantic foreplay.”

“That's not why I called, you know-- not really. I wanted to talk to you.” Alana admitted, “I wasn't sure you'd even pick up.”

“I didn't want to.” In her mind, Alana could see Margot straightening, lifting her chin a fraction. “I almost didn't.”

Alana tried to be content with the fact that not only did Margot indeed pick up, she called her back after Alana had hung up. That meant something-- right now, that meant _everything_. It was the only hope she had, the only contradiction to the pathetic voice in her head, the one that was steadily wailing _she might never forgive me for this._

“Mm.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.” She yawned, as if on cue. “How about you? How are you sleeping?”

“Without you or in a strange house?” Her tone was teasing, not serious. Alana was relieved, but still tense.

“Both,” she decided.

“It’s cold. Like I said, it can be noisy-- nothing to the dogs snoring, though.”

“No.” Alana missed the sound already: it had been the baseline of her life for months. “It must be bats. You don’t really believe in paranormal things, do you?”

“I don’t know. Demons, maybe.”

Alana wanted to laugh, but she was too tired to muster the energy. How typical of Margot: she wouldn’t have a spirit, she would have a _demon._

“I’m sure you could find a priest to bless the house if you’re really concerned.” She was speaking senselessly and she knew it, but her mind foggy with sleep.

There was a smile in Margot’s voice when she spoke again. “I’m not sure I’d be able to reap the benefit of the blessing if I was in flames myself.”

“I’m tired,” Alana said, yawning again, her eyes drifting shut as her stomach rumbled. It was too late, and she was too exhausted, to even think about eating. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“I suppose.” Softer, Margot added, “Alana-- _listen_.”

Alana was already listening-- she was always listening, especially when it came to Margot.

“Mm?”

There was a long pause, and maybe Margot was considering backing out of whatever she had planned to say. In the end, she bit the bullet, or at least substituted it with one just as effective. “You didn’t leave here as a victim,” Margot said-- serious, stern, but not angry. “Don’t you dare come back as one.”

It would be so easy to take that the wrong way entirely: to hear Margot rejecting her vulnerability, ignoring her emotional trauma, but when Alana ran it over in her mind a few times, she saw what Margot was really getting at.

It was a revision, a correction, of Margot accusations nearly two months ago, when she'd thought nothing more of Alana than anyone else had: " _Some people prefer to revel in victimhood."_ It was a reminder that she was stronger than anyone here thought, even when Margot could hear the weakness in her voice. It was a validation and an encouragement and a warning all at once.

It was also the strangest way of saying “be careful,” Alana had ever heard, but it was the closest to a blessing she would ever get from Margot.

“Thank you,” she said, biting her lip. “Goodnight. Take Care.”

Margot echoed this, half-heartedly, and then the line went dead.

It didn't take long for her to fall asleep, but the moments before she did were filled with thoughts of how quickly they could wrap things up here (although, of course, they had yet to actually  _start_ ) so she could go home and show Margot just how silly it was to hold a grudge. 


	25. can we turn this knife the blunt way around?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my continuation of shamelessly screwing with the characterization of minor characters for the sake of my story: this week it's Inspector Pazzi's turn. Enjoy.

The following morning was spent in one of the hotel’s conference rooms, Italian case files open and spread across the table, where Pazzi and Jack sat at opposite ends. Alana took an empty seat somewhere in the middle and kicked herself for taking French classes in high school, rather than Italian.

Jack’s leg shook, all repressed tension. He drummed his fingers against the lid of his coffee cup. “Shouldn’t one of us be out there? If he’s roaming the streets--”

“It’s been a year since you have seen this man. Don’t you think a de-brief is exactly what you need?” Inspector Pazzi asked, smiling tightly at Jack, as if he did not expect to be challenged. “You are not familiar with his most recent crimes, Agent Crawford, beyond what I told you last night. Some clarity will be beneficial to us all.”

It made sense to Alana, to compare notes with the Italian police, and she found it difficult to imagine Jack had expected much else. She supposed they had themselves to blame for what would no doubt be the first of many misunderstandings, considering how ill-prepared this venture had been.

“I know who I’m looking for,” Jack said curtly. Alana supposed Pazzi was working on the assumption Jack was not pathologically obsessed with the ripper case; that the best part of the last year had not been spent re-evaluating and re-visiting every single detail of it. “If he’s out there-- and forgive me if I’m wrong, but you don’t appear to have anybody on the ground looking for him-- it seems to me we could be making better use of our time than sitting here reading.”

“Your friend Will is on the ground,” Pazzi pointed out, “or at least I assume he is.” He frowned. “Is it typical of him not to check in?”

Jack said “No,” in the same moment Alana said, “ _Yes_.” Pazzi looked between them and let out an exasperated sigh.

“I do not see a few hours spent sharing ideas and experiences as a waste of our time. We will not catch him by lurking in corners, Agent Crawford.” His chiding tone was met with a glare. Ignoring it, Pazzi turned to Alana. “Dr. Bloom? What do you think?”

It seemed like an unfair question: after all, she had not come here to hunt.

“I’d like to go over this.” She nodded toward the witness reports, the crime scene photographs, the list of possible sightings.

Pazzi’s satisfaction was obviously. “It’s decided then.”

Jack gave a grunt of disapproval, but he reached for the witness reports all the same. Alana watched him skim each line with narrowed eyes but little hesitance. She supposed he had enough of a grasp on the language to be able to make sense of the bulk of it.

“I will get you a translated copy,” Pazzi said apologetically to Alana, interrupting her thoughts, drawing her attention away from Jack. “Forgive me. I didn’t think.”

“It’s fine.” She reached for the photographs instead, held together with paper-clips and labelled with post-it notes.

The first body was a man-- average height, thin, early thirties. He had dark, curly hair: his eyes were a sharp blue, pigment only more haunting in death. With careful stitching and perhaps some sort of injected filler, his lips were pursed as if in a kiss. There was a knife in his back, and he had been hung with rope post-mortem, from what she could tell. When she noticed an ear was missing, her first thought of Abigall; her second, more coherent and detached thought, was of Judas, the disciple who had betrayed Jesus with a kiss and was believed to have killed himself soon after, of the Roman Servant who had lost an ear when the disciples struck out against him.

She did not think the physical resemblance to Will was even remotely coincidental-- it was a misguided crime of passion, a grotesque and entirely petulant way of saying ‘you hurt me.’ As ridiculous as it seemed, she was not the only one who felt as if they’d been thoroughly taken for a fool.

“The first victim-- did he take any other trophy?” She held the photo out of Pazzi. “Apart from the ear.”

“Mmm? Oh,” Pazzi pulled his chair closer to hers, to get a better look over her shoulder. “Oh yes. He took his heart.”

She pulled her cardigan a little tighter around herself before moving onto the next collection of images. Another man, older this time. His face was mutilated, particularly around the eyes. His liver and kidneys had been removed. There was a message amongst the madness, some vengeance that had been retributed. A direct motive, at least in the mind of The Ripper, that had been blurred by the emotion of the first murder.

She tapped the photograph to get Pazzi’s attention. “Who was this man? Do you know?”

“Videric Agresta. He owned a few properties in the area, was once a respected businessman. As far as I can tell, he had no connection to Hannibal Lecter.”

“Was _once_?” Alana flicked through the photographs, coming to a halt when her eyes fell on the plastic tag around the victim’s ankle as he lay in an alleyway, stripped of his armani suit. “He was on probation? For what?”

“He was accused of, and subsequently charged with, sexually harassing and assaulting a number of his female employees. It’s believed his wealth allowed him to bargain his way out of a prison sentence.”

This made her think of Mason, of Cordell. She wondered if there was anywhere in the world that men with money could not buy their innocence.

“Thank God the people of Italy have Hannibal to watch out for them, huh?” Jack muttered, not looking up at them.

Pazzi met Alana’s eyes and shook his head. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know,” she said, gently. “Please. Go on.”

“It’s possible this man ran into Hannibal and his lady friend at a nearby bar or restaurant. There was a blonde hair found not too far from the crime scene. We were unable to match it, but it’s reasonable to guess it belonged to her.”

“The Ripper had a reason for targeting him. He’s not here to clean up the country. His motives are almost always personal.” Alana paused. “Videric might have said something to Dr. Du Maurier, made some sort of unwelcome advance.”

“Oh, that’s Hannibal alright, always the hero.” Jack’s sarcasm was scathing. Alana did not turn to him.

Pazzi had obviously decided to ignore Jack, too. He reached for the next stack of photographs. “And the third?”

She dutifully took in every detail of each photograph twice, caught up in the stitching-- too tight, too neat. An arm was missing from the female victim. There was nothing theatrical about the murder: no flowers or strange posture, no veiled warning or criticism. It was detached, it was random; it was panicked and then covered up with surgical precision.

“This wasn’t The Ripper.”

Pazzi, beside her, frowned. “Are you sure?”

She shifted in her seat, holding the photographs in one hand as she raked the other through her hair. “Did you show these to Will? What did he say?”

“He was more preoccupied with earlier victims.” Pazzi glanced over at Jack, and then back to her with an uncomfortable smile. “It was why I was so insistent that the three of us focus on this.”

“Jack?” She sounded a little desperate, even to her own ears-- but there were lives on the line, and this was more important than pride. “What do you think?” She held the photographs out to him. Pazzi watched her carefully as Jack took them with a reluctant sigh.

“I wasn’t doubting you, Dr. Bloom,” the Inspector insisted quickly.

Alana felt her cheeks flush. “I know you weren’t.”

Jack raised an eyebrow as he flipped through the photos. “You don’t think this was him?”

“Where are the theatrics, Jack?”

Jack shrugged and slipped the photographs back across the table to them. “He had to tone it down at some point.”

“He lives to show off. Why would he change now, suddenly? He _wanted_ our attention.” Alana frowned. “You know as well as I do this one, at least, wasn’t The Ripper.”

“Then who was it?” Pazzi sounded a little strangled, which was to be expected from someone who had just been told he was looking for not one, but two murderers.

She could feel Jack staring at her. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t make a difference how many people he’s killed here. With all due respect, Inspector, you can solve your own cases.” Jack slammed the folder he had open down on the desk, reaching for his coat hung on the back of his chair.

Alana rubbed her temples. “Where are you _going_?”

“To find Will.” The door did not slam shut behind him, but only because the hinges would not allow it to.

He was gone for approximately three minutes when Pazzi turned to her with a weak smile. “Shall we continue, Dr. Bloom?”

* * *

By the time they’d gone through the other three murders-- one almost certainly the ripper, one almost certainly not, another Alana honestly could not decipher-- Pazzi had begun to look at her differently.

“Will told me you’re a criminal profiler.” He poured her another cup of coffee from the pot he’d had brought up from the restaurant downstairs.

She closed the file they’d been working on together. “I’m a lot of things. Or I was, before all of this.”

This seemed to disappoint him. “And now?”

Now, she spent her days walking dogs and kissing Margot Verger; she seemed to have perfected being the in right place at the wrong time. “I don’t really have a long-term plan at the minute.”

“You must enjoy profiling?” Pazzi seemed to realize this was the wrong phrasing before she could point it out. “Not _enjoy_ , perhaps-- but you’re certainly skilled at it. Is it difficult to find such employment in America?”

 _It is when you had a relationship with recent history’s most notorious serial killer._ Alana gave a tight smile. “It hasn’t been my finest year, reputation-wise.”

“Because of what happened?” He did not elaborate, and neither did she, only giving a nod of confirmation. He said quietly, “It may not be much of a consolation at the moment, but seasons change, life goes on, and people _will_ forget, Dr. Bloom.”

Alana was not entirely sure they had come across the same kind of people-- but something knowing in his tone was not lost on her. “This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to find him, is it?”

Her quick glance at the headlines on the newsstand in the lobby, even with her limited Italian, had confirmed what Pazzi did not need to: Il _Monstro Ritorna_.

“I was much younger then. A junior detective. My superior arrested someone, and the media-- and the country, it seemed-- were content to let it rest.” He folded his hands together. “There have been many cases over the years that I haven’t felt have been failures. I suppose we all have one we cannot shake.”

She thought of Abigail-- not a case, a patient, but someone who had left a mark on so much more than just her career. “The man in prison?”

Pazzi shook his head. “He died awaiting trial. An underlying health condition, or so we were told.” He looked to Alana, with weary eyes. “I promised his mother that I would see to it that her son’s name would be cleared.”

Alana almost winced at the blind optimism of such a promise, but then she thought of the accusations spray-painted on Abigail’s grave, and she understood. “So?”

“I started to look back into the files. Revisiting old witness testimonies, shining a light on forgotten evidence-- you know how these things go.” He began to tap his fingers against the table. “The Mayor of Florence was not pleased with the attention I was getting from the media. He pulled strings to have me dismissed.” A dark chuckle. “They called it ‘early retirement.’” 

“Oh.” Her eyes fell to the files. “I assumed you were still working the case.”

“I worked on the same team for eighteen years. The relationships I built there cannot be so easily dismissed,” he explained. He smiled warmly at her. “It does mean, however, that I lack manpower, which is why I appreciate all the help I can get.”

“ _I_ appreciate you being so accommodating to us, Inspector.” She gave an apologetic smile. “This is your country, your investigation. I know how difficult Jack and Will can be, but they are grateful too.”

“Their behaviour is understandable.” Pazzi stacked the files on top of each other. “I was not left for dead by him-- their vendetta is much more personal than mine.” He paused. “As is yours, I imagine.”

Her ‘vendetta’? It was almost laugh-inducing; it implied she knew what she was doing, why she was here. In actuality, she was still questioning herself, only less openly than her brothers and Margot had. She did not have a plan, just too much stubbornness to give up and really walk away, yet.

“I just want this to be over,” she admitted. “I think, when you strip it all down, that’s all any of us really want.”

 

 

* * *

 

Jack was two drinks in at the bar when she found him there later that evening.

Alana sat down beside him with a sigh and waited.

She did not think he was being intentionally rude-- just uncomfortable with the lack of control he had here, displaced and dismissed and she knew how that felt so she did not hold it against him. But, at the end of the day, they had a common goal. It didn’t make sense for there to be a split between them: there were enough cracks, already.

“I met Bella here, you know,” he said, not even wasting time with a greeting. “Venice, not Florence. We came back here on our honeymoon. She loved it.”

She felt a pang of guilt for not making the connection. It was too easy to forget that, beyond the man she knew was a widower. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“So am I.” Jack looked up from his glass. “I think about it, you know-- about Hannibal, about how he saved her. How he _used_ her, to gain my trust.”

“He used a lot of people,” even as she said this, her thoughts were not of Bella and Jack, of Will or even herself: only of Margot. “That’s what he does, Jack. As personal as it felt, as it feels...maybe it really wasn’t all that personal.”

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” With a audible ‘hmph’ he met her eye. “Don’t let that Inspector fool you, Alana. He wants this just as much as we do.”

“He wants it as much as _you_ do.” Alana looked at him carefully. “You don’t know what I want.”

There was a pause. “Neither do you,” Jack said, after a moment, choking back another gulp of whisky. “Or else you’d be back home, with whoever it is you’re running away from.”

This struck a nerve. “I’m _not_ running away from her,” she said, too ready with indignance to realize what exactly she’d said before it was too late. Hastily, she clarified, “I’m not running away from _anything_.”

If Jack had even heard the first part, he didn’t show it. “We’re all running away from something.”

“Oh?” She was eager to deflect from herself. “What are you running away from, Jack?”

His failings, his professional mistakes, his guilt? Or the silence, the loneliness, Bella’s memory?

Alana knew how it felt to see someone everywhere you looked: her life had been stained by Hannibal’s presence for so long, he had absorbed years of her life without even trying. She could not imagine however, what it felt like to be married to someone for the best part of a lifetime, to be the unwilling the keeper of the memories, to wake up alone in a bed you had shared for so long in a home you had decorated together that was otherwise empty.

She understood grief of that magnitude, of that type, in a strictly psychological sense: the stages, the need for distraction to fill the void, the importance of allowing yourself to feel.

She did not know if it felt as if a limb were missing, if it were possible to ever really forget in the middle of the night when your tired mind had you reaching for them, if you would ever be physically capable of feeling complete again.

She didn’t know, and she hoped she would never have to find out. Losing her parents had been horrible; burying Abigail, not once, but twice, had been unnatural. To have to live without someone whom you had been promised a lifetime with was unimaginable.

In the end, Jack didn’t bother to reply: the first time, quite possibly, that she had known him not to have an answer for something she’d challenged him on. She stared him out until he relented and announced he was going to bed. She watched him leave, but she stayed at the hotel bar. She ordered a beer and took out her phone, staring at the screen that lit up Margot’s name and number until she gave herself a headache.

 

* * *

Alana’s text came in around 4pm. Their first attempt at contact after the previous night’s phone call, and Margot had just begun to believe the silence was _her_ fault.

_I think I may have outed myself to Jack Crawford._

Margot’s reply was only half a lie: _I am equal parts amused and curious._

It was six and a half minutes before Alana replied-- too long for her not to be talking herself out of something. _Can we catch up tomorrow? I’m beat._

Margot wondered why she bothered to text in the first place if she didn’t want to talk, but she was too proud to ask. _Sure._

There was another pause between this and the next message. Shorter than before, but just enough time for Alana to second guess herself, and then second guess whatever decision she’d come to.

_I hope you’re OK. Goodnight, Margot._

She didn’t grace the last message with a reply, but she wanted to.

When Andrew came by a little later-- hardly the surprise he seemed to think it was-- he brought a bottle of Jim Beam and Alana’s car.

“I missed her by the time I got over there,” he admitted, tossing the keys to Margot. “She left them with Adam, though.”

“Thanks.” He stayedin the living room while she went to get glasses from the kitchen. When she returned, he was flicking through the newspaper that had been dropped on her doorstep that morning. “There’s nothing in it about her,” she said, startling him, as she set the glasses on the coffee table. “I already checked.”

“There wouldn’t be, I suppose, it’s just a local one.” With a sigh, he folded it over again. “It’s a habit.. I see a paper, I scan it for news about Lecter.”

“The hype’s wearing off.” Margot took it upon herself to pour them both a few drops. “I suppose we should be grateful.”

“Gives them a chance to do whatever they’re doing in peace, right?” Andrew held up his glass as Margot took the armchair across from him. She wondered what they were toasting to. “Cheers.”

Margot watched him take a slow steady sip. It was unlike her, but she didn’t feel like drinking tonight. Instead, she cradled the glass in her hand and tried not to think.

It didn’t work. A second later, she leaned forward. “Have you heard from her?”

“No,” he muttered. “She text Adam. He said she arrived safe.” Andrew looked up at her. “Have you?”

It was tempting to gloat, but she liked Andrew, or at least did not yet have a reason to _dislike_ him. It was easier to sympathise with him than she’d thought, and so her lie was a kind one: “I must have gotten the same message as your brother.”

“I guess I was wrong about her being homesick.” Andrew polished off the contents of his glass in one more gulp. “Maybe I don’t know my sister as well as I think I do.”

“It’s only been two days,” Margot said, diplomatically. “I imagine she has greater things to think about than calling home.”

She said this, but as much as she’d told herself to expect as little contact as possible, she too was disappointed: in Alana, for not making time to call, in herself, for expecting her to.

Andrew’s smile was weak. “I know.” Margot watched as he poured himself another drink. With a sip, he was shaking his head, leaning forward just as she sat back to watch something inside him unspool. “You know how I found out about what happened? About what Lecter did?”

Margot blinked at him and waited, sensing this was a rhetorical tirade for which she only needed to listen.

“I saw it on the eleven o’clock news,” Andrew admitted, voice breaking under the weight of his bitterness. “I watched my sister be loaded onto the back of an ambulance while some stupid reporter talked about a bunch of murders I couldn’t have cared less about.”

“That must have been... _difficult_ ,” Margot said, simply because she thought that was what was expected. The first bloody glimpse she’d caught of her own sibling after his ordeal with Dr. Lecter had not been filled with the same sort of horror that it had for Andrew.

He rubbed his eyes, glass forgotten on the coffee table as he tried to rid his mind of the image. “You have no idea.”

“No. Not really.” She still felt dizzy with satisfaction when she thought of Mason’s mutilation. She could not empathize; she could only listen, and try to imagine what it must have been like to grow up with a sibling who did not relish seeing you in pain, and instead who was this haunted by it, a year later.

“And then I got to the hospital, and she was already in surgery-- God, she was in surgery all night. The doctors, they talked about internal bleeding and spinal fractures but I couldn’t understand any of it. I’ve never been very good in an emergency. I mean, Alana-- she can keep a level head, and Adam just focuses his energy on one thing, but I’m not like that. It all got to be too much.” He looked up at Margot, something raw in his eyes. “I walked out.”

Sitting up a little straighter, Margot raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”

“I mean, she’d tell you, if you asked her, that that’s nothing new. I’ve walked away from so many things, you wouldn’t believe. But to walk out on her, to sit in my car and feel sorry for myself while she was fighting for her life, I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that.” He rubbed his hands together, agitated. “What kind of brother does that?”

“Not everyone deals with things perfectly,” Margot said evenly.

“No, but you’re supposed to try, when you love someone. Even if it kills you to put on a smile and act like you’ve got it all under control, you’re obliged to try.” Andrew rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know she’d been seeing him, not until a few days later when a reporter caught me outside the hospital and asked me about it.”

Margot’s fingers missed a beat as she tapped them against her glass. The mention of Hannibal still made her uncomfortable. “Your sister is full of surprises.”

“I thought it was a sick joke, you know?” Andrew turned to her. “I only understood then, that I’d been saying all the wrong things. I was telling her that there was no way it could possibly be her fault, when I should have told her it didn’t matter whose fault it was as long as she was alive. I was telling her to be strong when I should have let her be weak.” He swore under his breath, then let out a laugh that was brimming with regret. “I told her it would be okay, that they would catch him, when I should have said that she’d be okay even if they didn’t.”

While he finished off his second drink, a thought struck Margot. “Is that why you’re making an effort with me?” Margot wondered aloud. “Because you feel responsible?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “So you’re better equipped for damage control next time?”

If he thought she intended to break his sister’s heart, he was mistaken. Margot was not entirely sure she’d been given enough of it to break even if she did wish to.

“Maybe-- I don’t know.” Andrew’s smile was sincere, if a little sad. “I’m guess I’m also trying to equip you.”

Margot couldn’t find it in her to return a smile. The world seemed too still, the temperature of the room too cool all of a sudden. “You think she’s going to get hurt again.”

“There is nothing I hate thinking about more.” A ‘but’ lingered, all the same. Andrew looked away. “It’s enough that it’s a possibility. Where does she get these damn ideas from?”  
Margot hummed in agreement, but her thoughts were of Mason. It might have been Alana’s decision, but there was no doubt where the suggestion had come from.

If anything happened to her because of it…

“Do you know what she told me about you?” Andrew’s voice was quiet, considering, as he stared until Margot was the one to look away.  
“Oh, I can imagine.”

When she looked back, Andrew was smiling hesitantly, all mournfulness from a moment ago gone. “I don’t think you can.”

He’d unintentionally played with her thoughts enough for one night. “I’m not going to _guess_. You should know I don’t care that much.”

“She _told_ me you’re a pain in the ass. That you’re stubborn and arrogant and that you get a thrill from being difficult.” He shrugged and leaned across to set his empty glass on the coffee table. “I guess I can see that now.”

Margot rolled her eyes and put her own glass, untouched, to rest with his. “Your sister is positively _charming_.”

“She told me,” Andrew continued evenly, “that she thinks she loves you.”

Margot got to her feet, capping the bottle before Andrew could finish it himself. He stared up at her until she felt compelled to respond. “Well, she didn’t tell me.”

“She did, you just didn’t _hear_ it.” Andrew reached for her glass, and she did not stop him, was too distracted by his words. He downed the contents of it, too. “It’s not so much what she says as it is what she does.”

It had been obvious before, of course, but then Alana had left her and what else was Margot supposed to think? Even as Alana had said _this is me trying to love you,_ Margot’s thoughts had not been filled with warmth, only hostility: she’d thought, sullenly, that Alana was doing a pretty terrible job at it.

But then she’d told her family about them-- not just that they were friends, that they were sleeping together; she hadn’t introduced Margot as a broken puzzle piece of the jigsaw that was Hannibal’s history, but as someone she _thought she loved._ She’d pushed her way back into Margot’s life when Margot had been bitter enough to shut her out, when it would have been much easier to let it all go. She’d cried through a crappy goodbye and she’d called Margot-- and _only_ Margot-- the night she’d arrived in Italy, with a voice that sounded small and lost and in need of something: in need of _her_.

It did not make the thought of something awful happening to Alana any more unbearable-- that was not possible. But it was further evidence of how _unfair_ it was that Alana wasn’t here: not only was she the first person Margot had ever really loved, she was also the first person who’d ever really loved Margot.

Which was, of course, exactly the problem, exactly the reason Mason had given her the stupid idea in the first place.

It wasn’t over in Margot’s eyes.

 


	26. no hard feelings but it's hard feeling this way

Will was waiting from them at breakfast the next morning-- a surprise, to say the least: not unwelcome, but not an entirely comfortable courtesy, either. 

He looked worse than he had the last time Alana had seen him. Darker circles under his eyes, hair that desperately needed combed; he was wearing a jacket that had a dark stain on the cuff that Alana assumed was blood. He stood up to greet them when they walked into the room, but he did not hold eye contact. 

“ Pazzi had to step out to take a call,” he explained, a thin smile that was as convincing of his happiness at seeing them as the awkwardness that hung between them was. “You both settling in alright?” 

They exchanged strained pleasantries, maintaining the illusion of three old friends who had no reason to resent each other for just as long as it took for the waiter to take their orders and disappear out of earshot. 

“ Where the hell have you been?” Jack’s voice was loud enough to earn a quizzical look from the couple a table away. Alana cleared her throat pointedly. In a lower tone, Jack added, “I didn’t come here to play games. We’re catching him, and we’re going home. That’s it.” 

Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “If we could catch him without playing games, Jack, we wouldn’t be here.”

Jack sat back in his chair. “What are you doing, Will?” 

Will looked up, finally, fixing Jack with a firm look. “Whatever I have to do.” 

Jack’s eyes narrowed. His tone was sharp, a warning, when he spoke again: “If you hand him your strings, I can’t defend the things you do when he’s pulling them.” 

Alana knew he was thinking about the other murders here, the ones that didn’t belong to The Ripper, the ones he hadn’t wanted to talk to her and Pazzi about. He was thinking about Randall Tier, about responsibility and pressure and all the ways he’d overestimated Will’s stability before. 

Will didn’t seem to take this hint. 

“ I don’t need you to defend me.” He was not usually this defensive without reason, but Alana wasn’t the fool they both seemed to think she was. She knew what he was doing: he wanted to anger them into leaving; he thought if he pushed them hard enough, far enough, put as much distance between them as he could, he would succeed in pushing them out of harms way. Working together, to Will, had equated with bloodshed. “I need you to back off and let me handle things.” 

“ Handle things?” Jack was gruff, sarcastic. “Is  _ that  _ what you think you’re doing?” He turned to Alana, a look on his face that said  _ talk to him, because I’m done _ . “What’s your take on this? It’s not like you not to have something to say.” 

Alana folded the napkin in front of her into four squares for the sake of something to do with her hands. She glanced up, briefly, as if she were not carefully analyzing every word they exchanged. “I’m just trying to figure out which one of you is supposed to have changed.” 

Her comment hung between them, like she hoped it would, with Jack and Will staring each other out around it. The silence was broken only by Pazzi’s rushed  entrance, which earned everyone’s attention.

“ I’m afraid I must go.” He slipped his cell phone back into his jacket pocket. In a lower tone, realizing he’d caught the attention of other guests, he explained, “There’s been another murder.” 

Alana did not miss the way Jack’s eyes flicked back to Will-- not long enough to be questioned by anyone who did not know what he was thinking. “What happened?”

“ I’m not sure yet.” Pazzi paused, looking over Jack to Alana. “Dr. Bloom? Would you come with me?” 

Her stomach flipped. She didn’t feel ready for another crime scene; to face the expectation of making the same deductions that she’d trusted herself to make a year ago, when she’d genuinely believed she knew what she was looking for. She wasn’t sure she could shoulder that kind of pressure alone.

But Pazzi had a desperate look about him, a quiet pleading in his eyes that was directed solely at her. He was drowning in murders he could not explain, and he could have had the respected and experienced Agent Crawford or the esteemed empath Will Graham, but instead, he was asking  _ her.  _

This was not a curse: it was a compliment. 

“ Of course.” Will’s eyes were on her, but she didn’t care. It came as a relief to stand up from the table and step away so that they did not waste any more time chasing each other around in circles.

“ We should all go,” Jack suggested.

Pazzi quickly shook his head. “I don’t have the authority to get all of you into a crime scene-- with all due respect, Dr. Bloom and I spent hours yesterday discussing these murders. She is more informed than either of you two, and from what I’ve seen so far, more skilled in forensic psychology.” The smile he offered Jack and Will was smooth, if a little tight. “After all, you two were more keen on investigating sightings, were you not?” 

Neither man rose to this, but they both looked thoroughly ticked off to have been put in place by Pazzi. 

Alana had to remind herself not to be amused. 

 

* * *

“ Please, don’t think I’m not flattered that you wanted me to come with you,” she began, after five minutes alone with Pazzi, a weighty ‘ _ be careful’  _ from Will still ringing in her ears and all earlier amusement replaced with guilt.

“ But?”

“ Jack and Will-- they know The Ripper case inside out. Believe me when I say you could not find two people more dedicated to help you find him.” Long before she was lost in the personal wreckage, Jack and Will had been unable to disconnect from the murders. She might have consulted on a handful of the murders, but she had been careful not to take her work home with her-- when she’d had that choice. 

“ I don’t doubt that.” Pazzi glanced at her, briefly, stopped at a red light. “All three of you are excellent, in your own right, I am sure. But I don’t need people who are wrapped up in the case, who are working their own agenda-- that’s  _ my  _ job.” He gave a soft laugh. “I need someone who can look at the evidence presented and make sense of it. I could well be mistaken, but to date, you are the only one to come across as anything resembling impartial.” 

She thought of the anger that still bubbled inside her when she let it; she thought of the tears that still spilled over when she counted all the ways she’d been betrayed. She thought of Abigail, of all the conversations they should have had that had been stolen. She thought of Margot, of Bella-- the ones caught in the crossfire, who had lost just as much, but had been forced to live with the consequences; the victims no one ever talked about. “I don’t know if I’m entirely impartial.” 

“ If you can be honest, with yourself and with me, then that is enough, Dr. Bloom.” 

She only wished she could believe him. 

Pazzi did not have a badge to flash at the crime scene, but he had a smile. An officer shook his hand and spoke in hushed Italian, before leading them past the  _ Polizia  _ tape and the small gathering of press-- quieter and easier detained, but every bit as passionate as Freddie Lounds, Alana was sure.

As if a switch had been flipped, the voices around her seemed to fade to her ears as they approached the body. A young woman, whose name they did not yet know, her stomach cut and insides spewed out; a crown of wilted flowers on her head. Her hair was long enough to just cover her breasts. 

_ This was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister; maybe someone somewhere was missing her like Alana was missing Margot, unaware they’d never hold her again.  _

But there had been so many with families and friends and people who loved them, and there had been some who had been so alone it made what life they had had tragic. Every one before was someone’s child, and every one that came next, every one that was killed because of the things they couldn’t do, would be too. 

Pazzi scribbled in a notepad, mumbling to himself in Italian, while Alana moved closer to the body. Around both the victim’s wrists were dark bruises-- an angry purple probably only due to the blood no longer flowing. They’d occurred prior to death, but not much prior. 

The Ripper was more careful than that, usually. He did not mar otherwise perfect skin-- he killed and worked his design with grace. Yet there was something familiar about the placing of the bruises. 

When another officer slipped into the room, Pazzi motioned to her and said something she did not understand-- an explanation for her presence, perhaps. The older man eyed her carefully. 

“ American?” he prompted, after a long moment.

She nodded, and stood a little straighter. “I’ve consulted with the FBI on a number of Ripper murders over the years.” 

The man blinked at Pazzi. “Ripper?” 

Pazzi nodded solemnly. “It is what the American media call him, I believe.” 

He shook her hand, introduced himself as another Inspector-- Pazzi’s replacement, she assumed-- and then asked her what she thought. 

She looked to Pazzi, who seemed as interested as this new acquaintance in what she had to say. She dug her hands in the pockets of her coat and turned to the body.  
“ This isn’t what it seems. It’s chaotic, to say the least. Too chaotic-- there’s no making sense of it.” 

“ You said the last one was too  _ detached _ ,” Pazzi reminded her gently.  “Perhaps he’s aware how close we are. Perhaps he is panicked.” 

Alana shook her head. “No-- if he thinks he’s running out of time, he’s going to appreciate each kill all the more.” Her eyes fell back on the bruises. “I don’t think this was him either, Inspector.” 

They stayed a little longer-- mostly so the Inspector could ask for Pazzi’s opinion about what to communicate to the Italian Press-- but her word was taken at face value with little questioning. She found it odd considering, to the best of her knowledge, no one here had even seen her credentials-- but it would be a lie to say it did nothing for her ego. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent back at the hotel, speaking with the wife of the first victim. She didn’t have much to contribute, but the fact there was indeed more to the investigation than the Italian police were letting on seemed to reassure her. She cried on Alana’s shoulder as Pazzi poured her more tea and she pleaded for the restoration of safety-- one of the many things they could not promise her.

After, Pazzi complained of a headache so intense he insisted he had to lay down, so they returned to their rooms. She was showering when it came-- the flash of a moment in her mind, the feel of Margot’s hands in her own, and she put it down to the fact they hadn’t spoken properly in two days. And then she was wrapping herself in a towel, leaning over to turn off the shower dial, and catching sight of her own wrist was enough to have her stalling, connecting the memory with today.

Almost two months ago, she’d been in Margot’s living room, crying about what a mess her life had become to the only person who had not yet tired of hearing it.  _ I thought it would be over by now,  _ she’d said, and then Margot had rolled up her sleeves to reveal bruises only different to the victim’s today because they had faded:  _ so did I.  _

Mason’s men. 

It was not an intentional hallmark of their violence-- they were not smart enough for that, from what she could tell--  but it was the way they held women who would otherwise fight against them.

A thrill of satisfaction ran through her at the discovery-- or rather, at the fact she’d made it independently. The problem was, the bruises not unique enough to not brushed off as a coincidence by anyone but her, and she had no evidence bar her own instinct, which no one but Pazzi seemed to place any stock in.  

Regardless of her willingness to share, it was not a secret for long. When she went downstairs, Alana found Jack and Pazzi in the conference room they seemed to have unofficially booked indefinitely. Whatever harsh words they were throwing at each other were immediately silenced by her entrance. 

She had learned not to take this personally. “Where’s Will?” she asked, shutting the door behind her.

Jack stood behind the table-- she felt as if she were back in his office a year ago, as if they had something horrible to discuss. He folded his arms. “That’s what I’d like to know.” 

It took her a few seconds to realize both men were staring at her. “Well, it’s not like he tells  _ me  _ anything.”  

“ Maybe he doesn’t need to.” Jack looked to Pazzi, but when he spoke, it was directed at Alana: “Tell me what happened at the crime scene today.” 

“ We don’t think it was him.” Alana frowned, turning to Pazzi too. “Well,  _ I  _ don’t.” 

“ And why is that?” Jack was harsh, while Pazzi looked apologetic. They’d been discussing her, obviously.  She felt, for a moment, as if she was standing in front of Purnell and Chilton all over again-- as if they were both waiting for her to break.

She was flustered, but only because she had not been expecting such doubt.  “If you don’t trust my judgement, Jack--” 

“ Don’t turn this round on me-- I trust your professional capabilities, Dr. Bloom. I trust you when you tell me this wasn’t Hannibal.” Jack fixed her with a dark look that she imagined was lost on Pazzi:  _ Tell me this wasn’t Will, either. _ “ What I want to know is what made you come to that conclusion, and who that evidence points to, if it’s not him.”

Alana couldn’t tell if he was genuinely asking her if he’d missed the signs that Will was killing, or if he was testing her loyalties. It might have been a moot point, but it frustrated her all the same. She did not appreciate him putting her in this position.

“ Agent Crawford,” Pazzi began, “Dr. Bloom, like the rest of us, has no way of knowing who--”

“ There were marks,” Alana said, not missing Pazzi’s head jerking around to face her from the corner of her eye, “on the body today. Bruises, really-- I suppose it could be anything.” It seemed even sillier to say aloud now, even if she was confident she was right. 

Jack rose his voice to her, then-- frustration of his own, born from panic, and she understood too much to let this bother her, too, “ _ Tell _ me what you know, Alana.” 

She let out a breath. “I think-- the person, or people-- work for Mason Verger.” 

“ Verger?” Jack’s face creased in confusion. “What the hell does  _ he  _ have to do with any of this?” 

“ He wants his men to find Hannibal. He sent them here, with the instructions to do exactly that.” She looked to Pazzi. “I think the lack of information reported by the media has them believing the Italian police don’t know who they’re looking for. It’s possible that they’re doing this to challenge him directly, or to push the investigation further.” 

Pazzi was bent over the table, leafing through his notebook, as if he were trying to find another solution. “What do they plan to do to him, if they  _ do  _ draw him out?” 

“ I don’t know what Mason has instructed.” She looked between Pazzi and Jack. “But we have to find him before they do.” 

After a moment, Jack’s eyes narrowed on her. “And what if we don’t?” If it were not for the tension in his voice, she might have believed the shrug he gave. “What if we let them get him? What happens then?” 

Alana knew better than to rise to this bait-- she had known Jack too long, and she knew him too well, to not know when he was testing her. She kept her expression blank, and gave him back as good as he had given her. “I thought  _ you  _ wanted to be the one to catch The Ripper, Jack.” 

Jack flinched-- a moment passed, and then another. Finally, he looked up at her, something different in his eyes this time. “‘ _ The Ripper _ ’  is Hannibal Lecter, Alana,” he said. 

She crossed her arms-- facade of nonchalance be damned. “Don’t you think I know that?” 

“ I don’t know--  _ do y _ ou?” There was something unwavering about the way he looked at her-- it could have been anger, it could have been concern. “I wanted you here because I know you know The Ripper and I know you know Hannibal. Perhaps I overestimated your ability to connect the two.” 

“ You think you overestimated me, Jack?” It came out more bitter than she intended. She looked to Pazzi, because the way Jack was looking at her made her feel as if she’d been punched in the stomach. The Inspector seemed to be following the conversation-- but only just. “I  _ know  _ who we’re looking for,” she said coolly, “but I also know that Mason’s men will kill him if they catch him first.” 

Jack was staring hard at her. She knew what was coming before he’d even said the words:  “Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“ We didn’t come here to kill him, Jack,” she said firmly.

“ We sure as hell didn’t come here to save him, either.” Jack shook his head. “Alana, I thought we were on the same page.”

“ We  _ would  _ be, if you’d quit flipping it.” Her voice was full with anger, and Pazzi chose this moment to step in between them. 

“ Perhaps we should continue this over dinner,” he tried gently. 

Jack finally broke eye contact with her. “You two go. I’m meeting Will. There’s a lead--” 

“ \--I don’t want us to exist on two separate teams, Jack.” She stopped just short of yelling, but it took some effort. “Just because it isn’t Will killing these people doesn’t mean his way is the best way.” She shook her head, the fight slipping away from her as she let Pazzi tug on her arm. “You are a fool if you think you two can take him now like you couldn’t a year ago: because the only thing that has changed is how much he wants to kill you.” 

She turned on her heel, and did not look back as she left the room with Pazzi close behind.  

 

* * *

She ended up buying a bottle of wine to share with Pazzi. “For trying to defend me,” she said, with a weak smile. “I don’t need it, but I do appreciate the effort.”

They sat together at a quiet table in the hotel bar, Pazzi’s notebook between them as they tried to come up with a way to catch both Hannibal and Mason’s men to no practical avail, when she would much rather have been bitching about Jack to Margot on the phone. 

“ Do I take it this is not the first clash between you and Agent Crawford?”  
Alana almost choked on her sip of wine. “It isn’t, but we’re not always this personal. Things have been difficult.”  _ Life has been difficult; we’ve been difficult.  _

“ Of course.” She liked that Pazzi did not need an explanation. He let the silence cleanse that conversation before beginning another one. “Inspector Simone, today, he was impressed by your skill.” 

“ I really didn’t do anything.” 

“ If, with your insight, we are able to catch this other group, you will have helped to save lives, Dr. Bloom.” Pazzi shook his head, some kind of sadness in his eyes. “You mustn’t underestimate yourself.”

“ I’m not.” She’d always been humble, but she’d had a tremendous amount of pride in herself too. What she meant, when she told Pazzi she didn’t do anything, was that she used to do so much more; that she used to do so much  _ better _ . She would never be able to impress the same amount of people she had disappointed, and there was something about that that still stung. “I just think that Jack or Will would have come to the same conclusion, eventually.” 

“ You mentioned yesterday that you don’t currently have a long-term plan.” Pazzi poured them both more wine, but did not drink his. “Would you consider coming here to work? As far as I know, there is not a permanent position open at the minute that would be suited to you, but I could speak to a few of my old colleagues. I don’t know if my recommendation would count for much, but perhaps Inspector Simone’s would.” 

The thought almost left her speechless. “That would be... _ incredibly  _ kind of you,” she managed. The high lasted only a moment, and then Alana’s smile was softening around the edges, reality dulling the brightness in her eyes. “But that’s not an option, I’m afraid.” 

Pazzi’s expression was one of curiosity, not judgement. “Oh?” 

“ I don’t have a lot left at home, Inspector, but that makes what I do still have all the more precious.” She shook her head. “There are people who need me, and people who I need.” She was thinking of Margot, of her brothers-- of having people who loved her too much to let her go without a fight. She might have left, but there had never been any question about coming home-- for the first time, really, she belonged: not to a place exactly, not  _ to  _ anyone, but she belonged  _ with  _ the people waiting for her there.“Sometimes, it feels as if I have more to lose now than I did a year ago,” she admitted. 

“ Perhaps you have.” Pazzi’s eyes were clouded by thoughts, but his voice was soft. “No one was made to be alone, Dr. Bloom.” 

She tilted her head. “Do you have a family?” 

Out of his wallet came a dog-eared photograph, discolored by water-damage and age-- in it, a woman with dark curls hid behind large sunglasses, a giggling toddler in her lap and an older child with his thin arms around her neck, face tucked on top of his mother’s shoulder as he smiled up at the camera.

“ They’re beautiful.” 

“ We divorced the summer after this was taken.” He didn’t sound sad or bitter, just resolved. He looked up to Alana with a weak smile. “Her father was a slave to his career-- she wanted more than that for our children.” 

“ I’m sorry,” she said gently and with sincerity: she found it easier to empathize with a workaholic than a parent. 

“ I was not the father I should have been, nor was I the husband. For years, I felt as if she had treated me unfairly. Only when my job was taken away did I realize how little else I really did have. It was then I came to see that she was right.” He slipped the photograph back into his wallet. “I see the children now that they’re older. I attended my son’s wedding last July-- he visits me, when he can.” Pazzi shook his head. “My daughter, she is more difficult. I want to connect with her, I have tried to many times, but it is as if there is an ocean between us.” He looked up at Alana and smiled. “I suppose that what matters is that we would both cross it, without hesitation, to get to each other. Pride be damned.” 

It made her think of Jack, and the way Pazzi was watching her, carefully, told her this had been intentional. 

Her feelings came to crash with a sigh. Elbows on the table, she held her head in her hands and ran them through her hair. “Jack and Will, they don’t think they have anything else, when you take this away. What scares me is what they would do to catch Hannibal. I worry that if it came down to it, they wouldn’t protect each other.”  _ Or themselves,  _ but then that went without saying. “I worry that I’m going home alone, with three body bags and the knowledge that I stood back and let them kill each other.” 

The same fear she’d had a year ago, and it felt like a vicious cycle that she knew could only be broken by finding Hannibal, by finally putting it all to bed, by disconnecting from each other once and for all. 

“ I’ve been meaning to speak to Agent Crawford, alone,” Pazzi said. “I cannot promise he will not still be out for blood when we have finished, but I will remind him that devoting his life to this is the easiest way to ensure an early grave, one way or another.” 

She wasn’t entirely sure Jack would welcome this advice, but he sure as hell wasn’t listening to her. She raised her glass to meet Pazzi’s in a grateful toast and told herself she was doing the best she could. 

 

* * *

She didn’t care that Alana hadn’t called.

She’d promised to, yes, but, contrary to what Alana probably thought, Margot was not an obsessive girlfriend with a dependency complex. She knew Alana was busy. It would be unreasonable to expect her to prioritize calling home above everything else that was going on.

What she cared about what the fact that Alana had left in the first place. She’d come to terms with it because she had no choice, but she had too many hours to herself to think about the consequences, especially since Andrew had made the possibility of something happening to Alana so real. 

She didn’t blame Alana for leaving anymore: now, she only blamed Mason. 

Her brother had planned this, surely. Divide and conquer, and when he realized Alana leaving had not been enough to push them apart permanently, he would take new measures to ensure they were well and truly finished. 

She laid awake for hours, listening to the squeaking of what was most definitely bats, and forced herself to think of what Mason’s men would do Alana. There was not much call for imagination: she had her own experiences to draw from.

She envisioned Alana fighting back, but it instilled no confidence in her. The outcome would be the same-- she should know. 

When she finally slept, she dreamt of a baby crying-- shrillfully, as if it was in some sort of pain-- of a pressure in her chest that she could not catch her breath around, of limbs that felt as though they were filled with led. She couldn’t move to follow the sound, but there was no doubt in her mind as to what it was. Footsteps overhead, a pig squealed, the crying stopped, and her brother’s laugh filled her ears.  Blood seeped through the ceiling overhead, it dripped onto her forehead, onto her lips, but she could not wipe it away. 

As if she’d needed the reminder of the last person Mason had taken away from her: the child she could never have, the lengths she’d been pushed to out of desperation. 

She no longer had someone to quiet the noise that her hostility made; she no longer had someone to talk her out of all the things she’d longed to do for years. 

It was no coincidence that there were things she needed-- well,  _ wanted _ \-- still at the house. She had known, even as she’d been packing with Alana and Cordell bickering about her leaving a few feet away, that she would come back.

Perhaps Domeling had been right, after all-- maybe she really didn’t know who she was without her brother. 

Maybe it was a ‘fuck you’ to Alana for not calling, for leaving in the first place. Maybe it was a consequence of the dream that had her waking up with a racing heart, a hand on her stomach were her scar would always be, a reminder that Mason would always win. Whatever the reason, Margot got into Alana’s car at 5:23am and programmed the GPS to the place that no amount of distance would really free her from: home. 

 


	27. you're talking me through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one update for right now, although I hope it won't be long until I have the next one/two up. I truly appreciate any and all support, and live in (however minute or misguided) hope of this ship becoming canon.

Her first port of call was, of course, the stables. She stepped inside to find them empty but for the birds building a nest in the roof, a worrying amount of blood-stained hay, and holes in the bags of food that she attributed to the rats.

No locks had been changed, to her surprise, and she wasn’t sure whether she’d over-estimated Doemling or he had over-estimated her: she had thought he was smarter than that, and maybe he had thought she really wouldn’t come back.

If he was surprised to see her, he did not show it.

Doemling breezed into the parlour as if he belonged there, barely meeting her eyes before reaching for the stack of papers on the coffee table. “Ah, you’re back,” he said nonchalantly, and there went her theory that he had not expected her to return. “I take it things did not go to plan with Dr. Bloom?”

Margot did not reply. Instead, she watched him lick his lips and felt her fingers twitch. He nodded to himself, as if she had answered him in the negative.

“It’s a shame, really-- she seemed decent. It will be almost impossible for you to find someone better, I expect.”

It sounded like something her brother would say. The fraction of her mind that momentarily agreed with Doemling on this was quickly silenced by the thought that she couldn’t possibly do any _worse._ Alana had left, after all, and not before she’d consumed her so wholly.

“Still, at least you have your health.” Margot couldn’t quite tell if that was a threat or not, a distinction that might once have come easy to her. “And you have your brother, of course. He _has_ missed you, Margot.”

“You’ve told him I’m back, I suppose.” Margot was under no illusions that Cordell had not been alerted to her presence the second she’d set foot on the property. There were eyes everywhere, even without the majority of Mason’s men. There had never been the opportunity to sneak in and out, to come and go as she pleased. She’d learned that the hard way, too.

“I didn’t tell him you had left,” Cordell admitted, a thin smile in place when he looked up at her. “There was no reason to upset him needlessly. You know how fragile he can be.”

Mason was fragile, all right: in the sense that it did not take much to shatter his pretence of calm. He was chaotic in his rationale, despite a bland exterior, and Cordell was all too aware of how difficult Mason could make things if he wanted to. Whatever had been signed and sealed, Mason still held the purse strings, or else Cordell would have had him shipped off to a hospital just as Margot had intended to.

When she asked about the horses, Cordell straightened. “It’s a meat business: you know how these things work.” He frowned. “You weren’t attached, were you?”

Attached to riding? Naturally. Attached to any one horse in particular? No. She knew better than to grow sentimental with any of the animals, her father and Mason had used them against her too many times in the past. It was difficult, when riding hinged so much on trust, but for the most part she’d been wise enough to keep the horses at the same distance she had all the people in her life.

That did not mean the implied slaughter of them did not sting. She thought of the youngest one, who had not even been out for a ride yet at the time she left; of one of the oldest, a beautiful stallion with a snow-white mane and soft eyes and a gentle trot-- the one she’d had Alana ride.

“More are on their way. Miniture ponies. Perfect for reviving the summer programme,” Cordell explained, “much more suitable for the children.”

She had never quite understood the expression of blood running cold until that very second. “We don’t do those kinds of programmes anymore.”

There was a teasing in Domeling’s eyes when they finally met hers. “Yes, we do. Your brother... _reconsidered_ , while you were gone.”

Maybe it _wasn’t_ just the money Doemling was after.

With a tighter smile, he turned and stalked out of the room, papers tucked under his arm as he adjusted his tie. The only thing Margot thought to do was call Alana, if only because she would be as repulsed by this latest development as she was, but then that would involve admitting she’d come home. A decision made in haste, Margot was not yet prepared to really stand by it to _that_ extent.

It was her decision to make, yes, but she was beginning to realize that did not mean it had been the right one.

The summer programmes, camp for underprivileged children, had been Papa’s idea. It had bolstered his image among his social circle, it had given him greater control at a time when Margot and Mason were useless teenagers-- too old for him to get pleasure from taunting, too young to join him in his sadistic escapades.

She knew how Mason was with the children, had always known, long before accusations arose and a lawyer was hired and Papa had chided him for not being more careful.

The programme skipped only a single summer, and then a new group of children in oversized coats and too-small shoes arrived. They left with duller eyes and darker cheeks, but nothing more was said.

Her apathy had not come from ignorance, but perhaps there had been a hint of indifference, petulant, born out of jealousy, but justifiable from where she’d stood then: after all, the children simply squeezed out a few tears and were allowed to leave, a short few weeks of their lives and then it was over; she’d been crying for years, and it was never enough to satisfy Mason’s thirst.

Margot turned a blind eye, because that was what people in her world did; because that was how the adults of her childhood had reacted to the way _she_ was treated. So many nannies, so many private tutors, so many friends of her father. They knew what was going on, _had_ to have known, but they chose to pretend they didn’t. Self-preservation could bring out the very worst in people.

It was a catch-22: it had not been their place to help her, just as it was not hers to protect the children who came for camp, but no one could expect a child to really save themselves. If you didn’t take action, you were not only a witness, but an accomplice.

Guilt didn’t surge inside her, but thoughts of Alana did. Because Alana had been anything but comfortable with the complacency that came even from being in a relationship with her while she was living with Doemling and Mason, believing that the people who bore witness to terrible things were legitimising it, believing herself to be sending the wrong messages.

Margot knew she was nobody’s hero, no superwoman with a moral compass, but she was smart enough to know that allowing another batch of children to be mistreated in her brother’s name did not make her any better than Dolores Carlyle, the woman who had dared to love her father,silenced by a slap and unable to look her in the eyes for ten years.

She wasn’t entirely sure where this new-found clarity had come from-- whether it was the distance, or the time to reflect, or annoying imprint of a mantra that had lodged itself into her mind: _what would Alana do?_ Whatever it was, Margot almost regretted it. It was easier not to think about the suffering of others. How did people like Alana _sleep_ at night?

She made a mental note to ask her, the second of its kind in so many minutes, and it was strange to think that just a matter of weeks ago she had not have someone to confide in, that she did not know what she was missing. Maybe it had been easier then. An ambiguous conscience was hardly a price to pay if it meant she did not feel the sting of rejection as another day came to pass and Alana had not called.

It wasn’t long before Doemling was insisting her brother wished to speak to her. “It’s important,” he assured her, as she followed him up the stairs, curiosity getting the better of her. The last time it had come to this, Mason had relished in telling her Alana was leaving. Far from the worst thing Mason had ever had to say to her, but it had hurt so much in the moment that it might as well have been.

A nurse was clearing away whatever she’d had to spoon-feed him, passing them without speaking, head ducked as Cordell held the door for her.

“Margot!” Mason’s voice was as grating as ever. “It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it? Kind of you to house-sit for Dr. Bloom, but there’s no sense prolonging these things. It only makes it harder to let go, Margot.”

 _These things._ What did Mason know about relationships? He had never known friendship or love that wasn’t warped by dominance. Only then did Margot realize that she was the most significant part of his life, his constant despite whatever turbulence he was undergoing with Doemling or in the search for Hannibal, but he was not hers.

“What did you want?”

He looked to Cordell, who moved toward him and began opening the drawers of his desk. “There’s something I think you should see. It struck me, while you were gone, that all these years, I’ve had something that you don’t.”

Aside from the upper hand? Margot was almost intrigued. She watched Doemling take out a folder and open it, slipping out a stack of photographs and a single envelope.

“What is that?” She took a step back. “I have no interest in taking a walk down memory lane with you, Mason.” A smirk and a sarcastic retort was her means of asserting herself against whatever he was going to use to try and disarm her: “You wouldn’t be able to keep up, after all.”

“Isn’t her wit just _marvellous_?” Mason asked Doemling dryly, while she watched Cordell clear his throat to disguise a smirk of his own. “Anyway. Come closer, Margot. You’ll want to see this.”

When she didn’t, his eyes flicked toward the envelope. Cordell took it, taking the hint, and held it out to her. She looked from it to her brother. “A letter? From who?”

Her first thought was that it surely must be some ploy to further distance her from Alana. Her second thought was that it might not be a ploy at all, if Alana hadn’t meant half of the things she’d said at all and kept them, instead, for some pathetic breakup letter.

She was not expecting Mason’s response: “It _was_ from our mother.”

Margot took the letter, turning it over in her hands. Then, she ran her finger along the edge of the flap that had been sloppily tucked inside, rather than stuck: it had already been opened. “For me?”

Mason practically sniggered. “Oh, _no._ For _Papa,_ silly. Cordell found it when he was trying to make the best of mess you made in the library.” When she looked up, something was shining in Mason’s eyes. “Papa must have wanted us to see it. He burned all of her other things. Do you remember?”

She remembered the heat of the flames on her cheeks, the way her heart skipped beats when Papa poured ethanol on the clothes and it roarer so fiercely and so close to them that she thought they might all go up with it. She remembered watching the lace of her mother’s wedding dress tear and blacken and shrink into itself, and wondering why anybody would want to get married anyway.

“Papa must have kept it for us.” Mason sounded proud of this fact, but then he had always admired everything their father did and most of what he had failed to do, too. “Go on, then. Open it.”

The fact he was even giving it to her spoke volumes about it’s contents. Margot slipped her finger inside and used it to pushed open the flap before she had enough time to form a real expectation.

It was half a page long, handwritten in penmanship that wasn’t familiar to her at all. Slanted cursive, some words blurred by an inky pen and a shaky hand. The spaces between the words were too small for it to not have been written in haste.

Her mother’s goodbye letter. Or, as became apparent as she read, her mother’s suicide note.

She addressed Margot’s father venomously, calling him a devil, a monster. She spoke of how he had crushed her dreams, of how she was a shell of a person now he was finished with her. She said she could not live with the shame that came from being his wife, but she knew he would not allow her to live without him; she said that she was doing what she could to take that decision away from him.

It was the very last lines that Margot could read only once.

_The children that I bore to you are not mine; they never were. I look at them, and I see you: the heir you wanted, the spare you didn’t. It contents you that your brand of evil will not die out-- it will live on, in them; it will breed._

She folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. “Did she do it?” she asked, tucking the flap back in again and handing it back to Doemling while her brother’s eyes narrowed.

“Did she kill herself? Well, where else would she be?” Mason’s voice became patronisingly soft. “Oh, Margot, you didn’t think she was coming back for you, surely?”

“I know she’s not.” She’d always known that, even as a child, and as angry as she’d been at times, she had understood. When an animal broke free from a trap, it did not return to it’s place of capture, and maybe, it convinced itself that whatever had been left behind was not worth going back for.

Yet here _she_ stood, in front of her brother and Doemling, watching as the only words she would ever associate with her mother were hidden away again in a desk drawer. She couldn’t really be hurt by the rejection of someone who had never bothered to get to know her, who sounded deranged and desperate and like they wouldn’t have been much better at protecting her than she had been at protecting herself.

She knew now, at least, that the woman she had thought her mother to be-- the kind who was tough enough to walk away and not look back-- was made only of dreams. In real life, women did not simply walk away from abusers with a flip of their hair and a shrug. It took years, it took tears, and sometimes, it took any way out that presented itself, however horrible. The fact it had not been easy for Margot to stay away did not mean she belonged here any more than her mother had.

“Say something, Margot,” Mason probed, impatient. “Was she how you expected?”

Not at all, but Margot did not feel disappointed or resentful. For the first time, she only felt remorse for her mother. Maybe she, like Mason, had never known any kind of love, either.

“I don’t think any of us were ever going to live up to each other’s expectations.”

“Papa didn’t have very high expectations for you,” Mason reminded her. “I wonder what your expectations are for me.”

She’d stopped having expectations for him a long time ago, when she’d learned how hard he would try to exceed them. When she thought Mason could not get any worse, he would raise the bar.

Now, she looked at a man who couldn’t even feed himself and thought that maybe she could still shatter his expectations of her. “All I expect from you, Mason, is a kidney, should I ever need one.”

“You think I’d give you a kidney?” this cracked Mason up, but there was an edge to his laughter.

Margot smiled darkly in return, but she turned and made her way toward the door. “I think that’s the very least you owe me,” she said, over her shoulder.

* * *

That night, she took the stairs in the dark, slowly, one hand curled around the banister and another reaching out to touch the wall. She did not need this guidance-- could take these stairs with her eyes shut, had run up them blindly enough times-- but it instilled an illusion of safety, nonetheless. She listened, but she heard no attempt at movement from any of the rooms.

The door to Mason’s bedroom creaked. It had been that way for as long as Margot could remember; the hinges had never been oiled. Such a sound had had her stiffening to fist her bedsheets, holding her breath, so many nights of her childhood. Mason liked her to know he was coming.

She stood in the doorway, the room lit only by a scented candle that was burning itself out. She could make out the outline of his form-- his closed eyes, his too stiff hands and body. His soft snores were not pretend.

A year ago, she’d stood in the same position, chiding, “ _Wakey, wakey, Mason_ ,” with self-indulgent glee. She had worked to instill fear in him at the sound of her voice, content that she’d disturbed him enough that he would not sleep the rest of the night. At the time, she’d felt as if she were winning. Now, she could not help but wonder what her prize had been.

It had been the two of them then, before Cordell or Alana but after Will and Hannibal. It would be a lie to say she did not still feel cheated-- cheated out of the life she could have had, ruining his. But there were at least a thousand things Mason himself had cheated her out of that she could not let go of yet, either.

Tonight, she bit her tongue. She remembered slipping in here as a teenager to watch him sleep, imagining the poke of her nose against her palm through the pillow she could press to his face; the way he might whiter around beneath her as he came to, a desperate fish out of water.

Perhaps it had been the reasoning of a teenage mind, the cowardice of a girl who had still carried with her a pathetic hope that her future might involve fitting it with her fucked up family, but her excuses had been simple: Mason was stronger than her, even if he had been small for his age, and he would have overpowered her. If not, he would have made enough noise thrashing about that Papa would have woken up.

She’d been stupid enough to believe psychiatrists when they’d told her this too would pass; she’d thought that Mason would grow out of his hellishness, that she would grow up and they would grow apart.

If only she’d been smarter then, more serious about it-- it occurred to her that if she _had_ killed him then, she might be out of prison by now. Back then, the possibility of imprisonment had been so undignified, but what else did she have to show for the years that had passed? She did not think her relative ‘innocence’ in the eyes of the law had made her a better person.

She’d been even younger, seven maybe, on the night she’d followed the sound of sobbing to her brother’s bedroom. She found him, tangled up in damp sheets as he rubbed his eyes and struggled to breathe after what she’d taken to be a nightmare. His entire body was shaking-- he looked impossibly small in the king-sized bed.

She’d approached him with childish curiosity, her brother showing weakness a foreign sight even at that age. She remembered, clearly, the cotton nightdress she wore that was so big on her tiny frame that it almost tripped her as she moved closer to Mason. She remembered that she wore it, despite its size, because it covered the bruises.

When Mason was reduced to sniveling, they blinked at each other for a long moment in the darkness, and then he told her in the most pathetic voice that he’d kill her if she ever told Papa that she’d seen him cry.

It was the first time she’d been old enough to really understand a threat directed at her, but Margot had not been afraid. Fear came later on-- after naivety but before nonchalance.

Not that she thought Mason even remembered now, but she’d kept her end of the bargain. She’d never told Papa, had pushed the memory to the back of her mind, along with every other early memory she possesed from before the lines had been drawn. Monsters, vicious animals, evil men-- they did not have nightmares; they did not cry and shake about childish things; they had not been victims too. They drank tears and they left scars and they were irredeemable, because then they were easy to hate, because then killing them was just.

She had never asked, but she imagined Alana and even her own psychiatrist saw it differently. Mason had been just as small as she had, just as helpless; motherless, isolated, bearing the brunt of a drunken temper. He’d simply been trying to survive too, he’d just been better at it than she had. He was proof, if nothing else, that self-preservation was alive even in the runt of the litter.

She supposed they understood it, Alana and Heimlich, quietly and objectively, even if they had not been insensitive enough to urge her to look toward forgiveness. She supposed it was easy to say it made sense when you were not the one to suffer.

She could not remember what her skin had felt like when it had not been speckled with scars; she did not have a grasp on family or siblings or love that had not been tainted. Her trust had been scorched long ago, replaced with paranoia; Mason had ruined her for every other relationship. The only reason her current one was not entirely in ashes was because Alana happened to have experience putting out such fires.

Her nightmares had seemed better than reality most nights; she’d been made sick to the stomach with the shame that came from losing the same battle a thousand times over, while he’d laughed and drank with Papa as if she were a source of entertainment marginally more human than the pigs.

She’d been reduced to crying in the shower, to thinking her only options came from the razor blades she turned over in her hands after shaving, considering, but was never brave enough to misuse.

She’d been reduced to sleeping with someone who she’d only known by name thanks to his affiliation with a horrific series of murders, to create a child whose presence she had never really been able to imagine. She’d had this ripped away from her too-- physically ripped _out_ of her, and she knew that her fight would have gone with it had Mason not been paralyzed so soon after.

She’d been left, smug from a few months exercising vengeance. She’d been amused and validated and vindicated by Mason’s suffering in lieu of her own. She had faked it until she hadn’t need to and she’d felt the smallest flicker of relief-- the first thing she’d felt in months, really-- when his men had come back, because as ambitious as she was, in practice, the power she had had was terrifying.

She’d cried about that-- that the rules were so deeply etched in her, the role that had been forced upon her for so long such a major part of who she was that switching them made her uncomfortable. She hadn’t even been strong enough to wholly enjoy it.

So she’d wanted him gone-- sent away, institutionalised, and she hadn’t cared where so long as she would not be expected to visit. An easy plan, or it would have been, if Alana had just fucking played along for the sake of a cheque. It could have ended there, nothing more between them than signatures on official hospital documents, and Margot would never have had to know how it felt to listen to someone she cared about crying on the phone, a world away, and not be able to hold her.

It wasn’t Mason’s fault she’d fallen in love, but it was Mason’s fault that this person had left her. Alana might have had the intention to come back, but her conversation with Andrew had struck the chord of fear: what if something happened to her? If Andrew was worried about Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, what would he think about Mason’s men, roaming the streets?

If Alana did come back, alive and in one piece, what kind of life could they have together, truthfully? They could not spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, waiting for Mason to strike out in revenge, to force Margot back. He would never let her go, not really. He would never let her be happy. He would never stop trying to take Alana away from her, too.

Dr. Lecter had agreed that the only solution would be to kill Mason, but it was clear now that Dr. Lecter had been running his own agenda with her. She’d believed all of the things he told her, the things she wanted to hear, and she’d thought that was the best support system she would ever have.

She could kill her brother, but it would not self-defence anymore, and it would not be looked upon as such by a court. She could choose not to, and spend the rest of her life in this house until the day she turned into her mother’s daughter, allowing him to wear her down until the only control she could find would be in her death.

Two steps forward brought her to the bed. She held out her hands as she felt the blood rush to them; she inched them closer to his throat.

_If Cordell wakes up, it’s a sign. If Alana calls; if Mason opens his eyes._

Not one of these things happened. It was, for the first time, entirely up to her. She looked at her sleeping brother and swallowed hard.

Her thoughts were of the horses who he would have seen to it suffered; to the children he had made cry in the past and those of the future he would have Cordell torture; of the baby she still dreamed about, the face she would never see and the hand she would never hold.

She would be saving more lives than she would be taking.

It was so easy to assume that if Alana loved her, she would forgive her, but Margot’s next thought was that if she loved Alana-- if she were _truly_ capable of loving someone like Mason and her parents had not been able to and if she was still worthy of any kind of love in return-- then she would not put her in that position.

Mason would not suffer: Mason would be dead. Even if Margot avoided prison, blamed Doemling, perhaps, her punishment would be the hurt in Alana’s eyes when they met again, the gnawing in her gut that she’d betrayed her the very same way as Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham had, and done so knowingly, for righteousness and money and a shaky, impermanent thrill.

There was the possibility things with Alana would not work out. They could have a fight about something ridiculous a few months from now and Margot could be the one to end it, and a year from that they could both thanking God they had gotten out when they had-- that would be one thing, anticlimactic as it would seem, but _normal_. What was not normal was to have somebody effectively risk their life to remove you from an unhealthy situation, to allow them to fall in love with you, only to thank them by turning into the kind of person who did not deserve them.

To Alana, Margot would be another failure, another reason to cry in her sleep. When you loved someone, you did not lay the burden of your own destruction on their shoulders for the rest of their life.

What Margot wanted was a life where she was not terminating her own chance at happiness to terminate her brother’s. She valued herself a lot more than she valued Mason, and that meant her future came first. There had to be another way, a third option that was more than just running away and waiting for him to send Doemling after her.

She backed away from her brother, backed out of the room, turned and took the stairs with no care whatsoever as to who she woke up. She had slammed the front door behind her-- nothing else with her but the clothes she had changed into, despite her excuses for returning-- before a light was flicked on upstairs.

She got into the car, grateful for the GPS and it’s ‘recent locations’ feature, because for the life of her she could not remember the Delaware address.

The roads were quiet, but it barely made the drive seem any shorter. Nevertheless, there was a small comfort in the distance. She couldn’t think straight, every instinct telling her to turn around and finish what Mason started, but she drove on until she passed a familiar store and a park she’d been meaning to walk to and a row of houses that were similar to hers.

Her fingertips still tingled as she opened the front door she hadn’t bothered to lock. The moment she was inside, she corrected this, and stood with her back pressed against the door as she tried to even her shallow breathing. Her muscles were tense and her heart had begun to race the second she’d climbed out of the car; it was as if she’d ran the whole way from Baltimore.

She thought about finishing the bottle Andrew had left behind the last time he’d visited, but she didn’t think her stomach could take it. Instead, she drank tap water until the scratching in her throat was soothed and her mouth no longer felt dry.

She paced the length of the living room four and a half times before she swallowed her pride and called Alana.

It rang out, until she was met with Alana’s voicemail, and Margot quickly hung up without leaving a message. Her cheeks burned; she cursed herself for being stupid enough to think that Alana would have time for her; that, a world away, she could possibly do anything even if she did.

It didn’t surprise her when Alana called back, just a few minutes later. “Margot?” her soft voice filled the line, and attempted to fill Margot’s ears, drowned out by the sound of her own heartbeat. “Hey, it’s late where you are-- well, early, I suppose. You couldn’t sleep?”

It took her a moment too long to be physically capable of replying. “I haven’t tried.” She could only imagine how she sounded; she hated it. “What are you doing? Am I interrupting something?”

“You saved me, actually. We're about three minutes away from being kicked out of the restaurant— arguing about a serial killer over croissants isn't very good for business, as you can imagine.” Margot wasn’t sure she believed Alana, or if the other woman was just being careful not to hurt her pride. She made the decision not to care. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know why I called you.” It came out more sour than she intended. She shut her eyes and tried to count backwards from ten, breathing still too erratic to pass for anything remotely normal. Alana could hear it in her voice, no doubt. God only knew what she was thinking.

“Talk to me,” Alana said-- a whole-hearted plea. “Tell me what's wrong. I'm listening, Margot.”

I’m listening. Margot folded herself into the armchair, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

 _I wanted to kill him._ Alana would be disappointed, angry even, that she’d gone back. Margot couldn’t stand the thought of being hung up on right now.

“Can _you_ just talk?” She sounded pathetic, but everything inside her felt dry and shrivelled and dying. She needed Alana to bring her back to life. Physical intimacy was impossible: her way with words, the notes of her voice, it would have to do for now. “I don’t care what you say. Just talk.”

If Alana thought this was a strange request, she did not say so. There was a pause, and then she was talking-- aimlessly, but with an airy gentleness and that made Margot wish more than anything she could see her face. “The weather isn’t what I expected. I thought it would be warm, but it isn’t. I mean, it’s no Baltimore, but the temperature really drops in the afternoon.”

Margot could care less about the weather in Italy, but it was better than the alternative route their conversation could take.

Alana did not wait for Margot to make even a noise of acknowledgement before launching into the next topic. “Will’s being evasive, but then he always has been. You know how he is. He’s up to something. I’d ask, but then he wouldn’t tell me, and that would just make things worse between us. I’m beginning to think there are some things that really are better left unsaid, some questions better left unanswered.”

Margot wondered if that was what they were doing now.

“Jack’s in his element. I didn’t realize how much of a distraction this would be to him. I wonder what he’ll do when this is all over. I wonder what any of them will.”

“Not you?” The burning in her throat had returned as she swallowed against it, but she did get up for another drink. If she moved the phone a certain way, she was met with bouts of silence between Alana’s words, evidence of their strained connection. It wasn’t worth the risk. “You don’t wonder what you will do?”

“The Inspector, Pazzi, he said one of the teams here might be in need of a profiler. He offered to put in a good word for me, when this is all over.”

“He offered you a job?” So much for playing by Alana’s rules. Margot didn’t know whether to laugh or cry out. She considered hanging up.

“Do you know what I told him?” Margot didn’t answer. There was a smile in Alana’s voice. “I told him I had something more important waiting for me at home.” There was a pause. “Unless you’re interested in some time away?”

Margot’s eyes burned. “I just want you,” _to come back,_ she’d meant to say, but then her throat had swelled shut and she’d broken off.

This did not seem to go unnoticed by Alana. “Margot? Can you do something for me?” Alana did not wait for a response, “Can you go outside?”

“Outside?” For a split second, the possibility that Alana was outside, in her car, flashed in Margot’s mind. But then she remembered her life was not a cliched romantic comedy: Alana was not that kind of spontaneous, and she was not that kind of lucky. “What’s outside?”

“The sky,” Alana said, matter-of-factly, as if it were this had not come from nowhere. “The sun-- no, the moon, actually. The clouds. I want you to describe it to me.”

Margot couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes. “I have _neighbours,_ Alana.”

“I don’t care-- just do it for me. Please.”

Margot had no intention of turning into the neighbourhood freakshow by sitting on her doorstep in the 40 degree coldat 4amadmiring the fucking moon.

She crossed the room to the window seat instead, taking comfort in the fact that she was not the most idiotic person in this conversation. “It’s dark, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Alana agreed. “How about stars?”

“Sure. Why the hell am I doing this?”

“Humour me,” Alana said evenly. “How many stars, Margot? Count them. Out loud.”

“This is why you don’t have any patients,” Margot muttered, and Alana laughed, and it did more to soothing her than counting stars ever could.

“Shut _up_ , Margot, and count.”

She did, inwardly, but Alana did not push her silence. She got to eleven before she realized she might have counted one twice. “Is this supposed to be helping?”

“Is it?”

“No.” A lie: her breathing had evened. She’d needed to focus her mind on something. It had only been left to wander for a few seconds when she blurted out, “I think my mother killed herself,” her attempt at an explanation for such a bizarre phone call.

There was a long pause, and Margot had to hold the phone away from her ear to check they were still connected. Just then, Alana was speaking again. “Oh, Margot.”

She did not ask how Margot knew this, although she had to have known she’d gone home. Maybe Alana even thought she was still there. Either way, she did not seem annoyed. Her voice was laced with the kindest compassion.

“It’s strange. A part of me always thought she must be out there, somewhere. It seems so final.” Maybe that was what she needed: maybe she’d needed the final door slammed shut in her face before she could ever really walk away from her family. “Should I feel relieved?”

“There’s no right or wrong way to feel. You shouldn’t _have_ to feel any of it.” Alana sounded more upset than Margot was, herself. “I wish I was there.”

“It wouldn’t make any kind of difference.” If she’d never left, Margot might not know in the first place. “I’m fine. It’s in the past. I grieved the idea of a mother a long time ago.”

Whatever she felt now was not that of a child who had lost a parent; her sympathy was with a woman she had never known, never loved, but understood more than the family she had grown up with.

“That’s the thing with grief: it doesn’t really have an expiry date.”

“Seriously? Is your phD in bullshit or--?”

“Don’t Margot.” Alana sounded impossibly firm and impossibly stricken at the same time. “I wish--”

“-- that you were here. I know.” Margot sighed. “But you aren’t, and I’m coping, and that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not doubting your ability to cope without me; it’s not a reflection on you. I just... _want_ to be there for you.” Alana had a way of making Margot feel like shit for challenging her. “That’s all.”

“I know you do.” Margot stood up from the window seat and tugged the curtains closed with the hand that was not holding tightly to the cell phone. “So hurry up and come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on tumblr (kara-la9) + we can cry about this ship together. it's like, my favourite hobby.


	28. you have to be lost to ever be found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have two chapters this week, my lovelies, for all your patience and support. It's hard to believe Season 4 is right around the corner. This fic will be completed before that, so bear with me a little longer if you don't mind.

Pazzi slammed his tablet onto the conference table and rubbed his forehead as if it ached. He muttered something in Italian that Alana imagined was a curse, and then he began to pace.

Jack reached for the tablet before she did: seeing the screen illuminated with the same photograph of Hannibal she’d seen splashed across newspapers and blogs at home was enough for her. Jack scrolled past it to the text beneath the email attachment and sighed. “Someone’s caught on that it’s Hannibal, then.”

“An anonymous source is threatening to leak this information if I do not speak exclusively to them.” Pazzi let out a noise of frustration. “One of the junior detectives must be behind it.”

Jack looked over the tablet to Alana. “Or Verger’s goons are.”

“We’re ruling out Freddie Lounds?” Alana asked incredulously.

Jack nodded. “The Bureau gave Lounds strict instructions not to leave the U.S. She has protection where she is-- she’s not so desperate for a story that she’d throw that away.”

Alana wasn’t entirely convinced the Bureau’s threats and promises would be enough to stop Freddie chasing European leads personally, and certainly didn’t believe they would be enough to stop her from sending someone else in her place, but there was no sense in arguing about it. They had no way of knowing who it was until they took it a step further.

“What will you do?” she asked Pazzi.

He threw his hands up in the air. “What can I do? There will be nationwide panic. The cover he has been using will be blown. He’ll be gone by the end of the week, if he isn’t already.” Pazzi swore again, in English this time. “If I speak to them, I am jeopardizing my standing with the Inspector and wasting valuable time. Not to mention what they may do with the information I give.”

Alana imagined they would be very disappointed with the information Pazzi could provide.

“We have to act fast,” Pazzi concluded, coming to an abrupt stop before them, determination in his narrowed eyes.

“We don’t have anything to act _on_ ,” Alana reminded him. She turned to Jack. “What else does it say?”

“That maybe we aren’t the only people after him.” Jack looked up to Pazzi, frowning. “Lithuania? What happened in Lithuania?”

Fifteen minutes later, when Pazzi had finished talking, they were silent and too still. Alana didn’t know how to feel: she had the explanation she needed, the background she’d wanted, but there was nothing satisfying about it.

Unsurprisingly, Jack spoke first. “I take it Will knows all of this,” he said, voice hard and steady as steel, careful not to betray even a flicker of emotion.

“I’ve come to assume so,” Pazzi replied, folding his hands. “He was directed here by someone in Lithuania, I believe. I know this must come as a shock to you both. I honestly thought... I didn’t realize you wouldn’t know _any_ of it.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t,” was Jack’s pointed reply, and Alana was still too lost in the horrific images her thoughts had crafted to care that he was directing this at her.

“I knew he had a sister. I knew she’d died. I didn’t--” she broke off, not bothering to finish explaining herself. The fact of the matter was that she hadn’t asked; that she hadn’t expected something so awful to have happened to the Hannibal she had known, or thought she’d known. Beside her, Jack stiffened. “What happened to him as a child doesn’t excuse what he is now.”

Her head snapped up at that, and she could feel the heat of Pazzi’s eyes on her cheeks as he watched her, curious. “I know that; of _course_ it doesn’t. But it goes somewhere to explaining it, Jack.”

“Does it?” He shook his head. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him.”

“His parents were murdered in front of him; his sister was cannibalised by the extremists who killed them and held the children hostage.” She stood up: his eyes rose with her. “If the thought of a terrified orphan half-dead in the snow with his sister’s blood in his mouth doesn’t move you to compassion then he’s already succeeded in hardening your heart, Jack.”

There was a heavy silence, lasting a moment too long, interrupted only by the sound of a clock on the wall-- a muscle in Jack’s jaw ticked in time with it.

“You know I’ve always admired the way you look at things. You know how much I’ve appreciated your moral input in the past. I still do now, and I hope it helps you to come to terms with everything.” It was difficult not to take this as patronizing, however much the apology in Jack’s eyes suggested otherwise. “But compassion is not going end this, Alana.”

“You asked me what I think Will’s doing,” Alana reminded him, “and I think it’s exactly what you refuse to. I think he feels too much and you’re choosing not to feel enough.”

“That’s the point. I’m _supposed_ to be objective. Will is empathetic. That’s how it _works_.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, it’s working, is it?”

“Dr. Bloom.” Pazzi was making it his mission to stop them from tearing into each other. “Maybe you’d prefer to work with Inspector Simone today? He could use some direction in searching for the...other killers.”

Jack shot him a dark look before she could reply. “Don’t do that. We can work together.” He frowned, looking up at her. “I’m not trying to push you out, Alana. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from with this. I’m trying to keep us all focused on the goal, here.”

“I know that. And I’m not saying you should let what happened to Hannibal as a child affect how you catch him. I just don’t think you can catch a killer until you accept that you lost a friend.” Her eyes fell, to the locked tablet with the photograph of the man she’d been inspired by, laughed with and kissed _;_ she thought of all of the sides of him that the people here would never know and wondered if maybe it hadn’t all been an act. She frowned. “Or maybe it’s just me that can’t.”

She needed a few hours alone, away from Pazzi and Jack and all of their expectations. She needed to connect all the versions of the man she had loved, needed to look at the different pieces and determine how it was that they had made up one of the greatest friendships she had ever had-- and one of the worst.

With Jack’s eyes on her, she turned to Pazzi. “I’ll go to Inspector Simone. Will he be at the station?”

“Alana,” Jack began, sitting forward, visibly scrambling for the words that would draw her back-- but it was not Jack’s fault she could not be as ruthless as he was in the face of Hannibal’s background, that there was still a part of her, however minute, that wondered about salvaging whatever pieces she could. She turned to Jack again and offered him a smile that was forced, but for the right reasons.

“It’s fine, Jack. We’ll catch up later.” She met his eye and held it. “Just...be careful.”

_Be careful--_ they all said it to each other so much, she hoped it had not lost meaning; that it would not fall on deaf ears now.

* * *

“Morning,” Heimlich’s greeting was muffled by the scarf tucked around his neck as he nodded at her. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I kept our usual appointment-- I assumed it would still work.”

Margot let him inside, more surprised by his sudden appearance than she supposed she should be. She had not given him a second thought in the chaos of the last week; it had not occurred to her that he would chase her down to continue her therapy. Were psychiatrists usually so dedicated, or had he been he been sent?

“Did Alana call you last night?” she asked, icily enough to have him blinking at her in confusion as he slipped off his scarf.

“No. Why?” he frowned, pausing with his coat only half tugged off his shoulders. “Should she have?”

“Oh.” She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, prepared for him to lie to her. “She telepathically told you I’d moved, then?”

“There was a brief phone call, before she went to Italy,” he conceded evenly. “Nothing since then.” He folded his coat over his arm and nodded toward the living room. “Shall we sit down?”

They stared each other out. He did not want to invite himself further into her home, but she was not ready to lead him anywhere until his intentions were clear. “You make out of state house calls now, do you?”

“No. I would recommend you finding another psychiatrist, but we can discuss that when Dr. Bloom comes back--”

“Dr. Bloom doesn’t make decisions about my therapy,” Margot interrupted curtly. “That’s why you’re here, remember?”

The doctor’s smile was more of a wince. “Of course. I just thought--”

“What? What did you think?” When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes, but decided he was most likely telling the truth, that it really was simply a coincidence that he had come out to see her the day after she’d gone home. She brought him to the living room, but did not offer him a drink, knowing from experience he would not accept even water. “I wonder, Doctor, what you know about me and Dr. Bloom.”

His face creased in confusion as he took _her_ chair and dug around in his briefcase for his notebook and pen. “I know that you obviously care about each other. Now, tell me, what happened last night that would warrant my involvement?”

There was something about the way he’d dodged the question: he was not as oblivious as she’d wanted to think, or she was not as subtle. She’d been careful before, not to mention Alana’s name, but she was beginning to wonder which one of them she’d really been trying to protect by doing so. “Do you know that we’re sleeping together?”

Heimlich’s amusement came from her boldness. He smiled through any embarrassment, ducking his head and then lifting it a second later. “I had my suspicions that you person you are… _involved_ with is Dr. Bloom, yes. Ultimately, _who_ it is isn’t really any of my business, Margot, but more how they make you feel.”

“What does it say about her? That she’s with me?” Margot asked, seriously. “Well, aside from the the obvious.”

“The obvious?” Heimlich sat forward.

“That she likes fixing broken things.”

“Is that how you see yourself, Margot? A ‘broken thing’?”

She rolled her eyes. Physiatrists were so _predictable_. “I think that’s how _she_ sees me.” Or how she had in the beginning, anyway. Margot was curious as to whether or not Heimlich shared this assessment of Alana’s initial intentions. “She says that’s not why she’s here, but I do wonder if she’ll tire of trying to fix me.”

She didn’t have to wonder, really. As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there would come a day when Alana would draw the line under them. Maybe, subconsciously, going home had been her attempt at having that day on her own terms: a way to get it over with while they could still remember their lives without each other.

“I only know Dr. Bloom professionally, but from what you’ve told me, and from the way she’s spoken about you, I believe she’s incredibly invested in your future, in your recovery-- just as much as she is in your relationship.” Dr. Heimlich looked up at Margot. “I don’t see how having someone in your life who cares about you like that could be a disadvantage. If you feel as if she’s pushing you, understand that it’s coming from a place of concern, but talk to her about it. She’s accomplished in her field, yes, but she’s certainly not a mind-reader.”

“And what does her leaving say about her investment in me?”

Heimlich sat back in the chair, crossing his legs. “What do you think it says?”

A week ago, Margot hadn’t thought it said very much, but then bitterness had always come easier to her than understanding. The uncertainty in Alana’s voice when she spoke of what was going on in Italy, the tear in her voice that first night when Margot had challenged her, the sincerity with which she said that she wished she was with Margot-- it had made her re-think things. Maybe they were just as lost as each other, still.

“It suppose it says it would be childish of me to begrudge her investing as much in her own situation as she did in mine.”

“Do you agree with that?” Heimlich was very focused. “ _Do_ you begrudge her?”

Margot didn’t bother to answer aloud: _not anymore._ “I begrudge the fact my brother has everything.” She turned to the psychiatrist. “Is that abnormal?”

Heimlich shook his head. “Your brother doesn’t have _you_. Not anymore.” He looked at her, firm, in the way Dr. Lecter had been more flippant. ”There’s no villain without someone to victimise.”

“He’ll find another victim.” She thought of the influx of children that would be brought to the stables once they were filled with horses again, of the teenagers that would be hired to care for them because she was no longer there to. “What if he already has?”

Heimlich frowned. “If you think someone is in danger…”

“I think everyone is in danger,” Margot admitted, “until my brother is stopped.”

“I imagine Dr. Bloom has suggested you go to the police?”

“That’s not an option.” Margot was not naive or pathetically idealistic: she did not expect the world to have changed, overnight, simply because she was trying to.

“Then all we can do, at present, is concentrate on you.” Heimlich’s sigh was one of resolve. “Perhaps, one day, you might change your mind.”

She knew she couldn’t trust the police or the courts; knew she did not have the kind of money to buy their concern like Mason would buy their ignorance. If she wanted to be heard, she needed to make more noise than her brother.

* * *

“Pretty coy of you,” Jack said as he sat down beside Alana in the hotel bar that night. “Credit where its due-- I didn’t see that coming.”

She turned her phone over in her hand to hide the screen. She’d text Margot fifteen minutes ago: _I can call, if you want to talk._

“What?” She frowned as he ordered two beers: one for him, one for her. “ _Jack…_ ” Exasperated, she shook her head, “You were quitting, remember?”

“You _weren’t_ lecturing, remember?” Jack responded, handing her a beer as he paid the bartender. “Anyway. Don’t change the subject. What was coy was getting Pazzi in on your intervention.”

“Intervention?” he fixed her with a blank look, and then she remembered: Pazzi had intended to speak to Jack about his experiences with Hannibal, about the stain it had left on his life. “Oh.” She took a sip of beer and shrugged. “That wasn’t me, actually. He offered.”

“I’m not annoyed about it,” Jack was quick to point out. “I...appreciate the thought.”

“No you don’t.”

They stared at each other until Jack smiled-- not willing to maintain the pretence that he was truly grateful-- and Alana returned it with a defeated one of her own.

“Pazzi told me what happened with Verger’s men.” Jack continued to watch her, even when she ducked her head. “He and Simone were impressed-- impressed with _you_. I can’t say I’m surprised about _that_.”

She hadn’t done anything, really, but give Inspector Simone descriptions of those of them she could recall clearly. It was pure luck they’d been reported to police in the afternoon for a bar fight. They were apprehended, but not before attacking a police officer. An hour ago, Simone had called to thank her for her help and told her everything she’d already gathered from the news: one had been shot dead in the hustle, another was in a critical condition, and two were in custody. So far, they had denied all affiliation with Mason, but Alana expected that to change before they were brought before the Judge tomorrow.

She was trying not to think about what Mason would do when he found out, if he did not already know. She didn’t doubt that he would trace it back to her. She was still deciding whether it was wise to omit this latest worry from Margot or not.

“I wish I could have been of help sooner,” Alana admitted, regretfully.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Strange advice from a man who had spent the best part of his life doing exactly that. “You did all you could do.”

“What did you do today?” She checked her phone. Still no reply from Margot. She took another long sip of beer. “Any leads?”

Jack nodded. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. If, hypothetically, I was wrong this morning, would you be interested in helping us out tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to admit you were wrong to get me to help you, Jack.” It had certainly never happened before, and it was much too late to expect him to start now.

“There’s a lecture tomorrow, he’s supposed to be giving at the library-- don’t ask how that came about, I don’t know. According to Will, they plan to leave while the attendees are distracted. Either the same person who emailed Pazzi has contacted them, or they only planned to stay for so long.”

“Tomorrow?” It seemed so sudden, so soon, as if it had not been years coming. Alana couldn’t quite imagine that, twenty-four-hours from now, it could be over, one way or another. “What’s the plan?”

“There isn’t one yet.” Jack shook his head, as if it was a moot point. “Will’s working on that. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

It didn’t sound much better put together than their last attempt had been, but she was too tired, for tonight at least, to argue. “Whatever you need, Jack.”

When she looked up from checking her phone this time, he was smirking at her. “You could just call him.” Her slip-up with pronouns a few nights previously had gone unnoticed, then-- not that she thought Jack was genuinely interested in her love life. More likely he was trying to secure her support for tomorrow by feigning interest.

Still, she wished her life was as simple as Jack seemed to think it was: that this was a case of not wanting to seem desperate, rather than trying to find the balance between giving Margot space to deal with things herself and letting her know she wasn’t alone, no matter how lonely she felt.

“I’ll bear that in mind, thanks.”

“Alana?” His smile was weak, crooked, and Alana felt her heart ache for the pain in his eyes. “We’re alright, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” she said, without missing a beat, the dryness from before gone in an instant. Her eyes fell to his beer. “We’d be a lot better if you stopped drinking, naturally.”

“Naturally.” He held up his beer until she reluctantly did the same. “To quitting, and to starting over,” he said, and she watched him take a drink but did not do the same.


	29. i think i am finally clean

The next morning, Alana woke up to a text from Margot: _I’m fine, but busy. We’ll talk later._

Alana had no idea what she was ‘busy’ with, but she had a feeling it was not decorating the house.

Usually, she would just ask, but Margot was in another country and there was very little Alana could do even if she did set her mind to something. More than that, she _had_ to trust Margot; she knew, logically, that it was ridiculous to have to personally approve all of her decisions in order to sleep at night.

Still, she fretted enough about the evasiveness of the message that she arrived late to breakfast. It became abundantly clear by the expression on Will’s facethat Jack had been much too optimistic the night before.

“It won’t be today,” Will said quietly, as she took the seat opposite him and Pazzi ordered another pot of coffee. “This isn’t it. This isn’t how we catch him.”

“If we don’t do it tonight, then he gets away,” Alana pointed out. She turned to Jack, who was staring into his own coffee cup, a frown set on his lips.

“I’ll see to it that he doesn’t. I know what I’m doing.” Will didn’t sound very sure of himself, but then she assumed he’d had a half hour of counterproductive challenging. She was sure Jack and Pazzi had given him enough hell for one morning, so she did not push him further.

To his credit, he tried to frame this latest venture in as convincing a way as possible. To his _discredit_ , there were very obvious gaps in the plan-- the things he did not want to tell them.

“I’ll take him aside; tell him he can’t leave yet. I’ll make plans to meet with him in a few days.”

Alana narrowed her eyes. “What will you say?”

Will’s voice was too quiet when he spoke again. “Whatever I have to.” His eyes shone with something she was supposed to understand, but didn’t.

Before she could ask, Pazzi was interrupting, “Dr. Bloom, we’re going to need someone to distract Dr. Du Maurier. Would you be so kind?”

This suggestion came as a surprise, to say the least.

“We’ve only met once-- very briefly.” She looked to Jack. “When you and I went to her house, after…” she trailed off, remembering: _after Will had ‘taken’ Hannibal to Minnesota._

“It doesn’t matter what you say to her,” Jack insisted. “Just so long as you hold her off for a while.”

“Of course, if you _could_ get any kind of information out of her, that would be wonderful,” Pazzi added quickly. Will and Jack shot him a look-- she wondered if they were even comfortable with her being _this_ involved.

As much as she rejected their desire to protect her, she wasn’t entirely sure she was all that comfortable with it herself.

“I don’t--” It had been easier to push Bedelia Du Maurier to the back of her mind for the last year; she had actively avoided giving her any more thought than was necessary. She was not prepared to face her; she didn’t know the rules of whatever game the other woman was playing. “She’ll have a guard up. She not going to open up to me.”

“She’s not going to open up to any of us,” Jack said bluntly. “You’re our best bet.”

“Bedelia’s tricky,” Will said, but it was an attempt to be helpful, rather than negative, and she knew that. “She might let you dominate the conversation, but don’t let her passivity fool you. Don’t take for granted that you can trust-- _or_ disbelieve-- anything that she _does_ say.”

It sounded relatively simple in theory. The more they discussed the kinds of things she could say to Bedelia, the kind of questions she could ask that might unearth further evidence, the better Alana came to feel about the conversation.

She’d handled much worse than Bedelia Du Maurier before-- logically, it should not have been a problem.

They parked in an alley by the back of the library. She would wait outside and if all went according to plan, she would intercept with Bedelia as she left the building, while Will and Hannibal spoke inside. Pazzi gave her the car keys, and Jack insisted that if anything went wrong, she was to go straight to the station-- not to wait for them.

She had not thought anything of this warning until Pazzi pulled a handgun from his bag and gave it to her. Then, he took out another, and nodded toward the building, motioning for Jack to follow him inside.

“I don’t understand.” She didn’t care how strangled she sounded-- it was the first time she’d handled a weapon since she’d stood facing Hannibal in his kitchen, Jack’s blood on his shirt but no bullets in her gun.

Her thoughts came erratically, nonsensical, pulsing with her heartbeat.

What if this time, she couldn’t pull the trigger?

What if she _did_?

“It’s just a precaution,” Pazzi said, obviously distracted. He turned to Jack. “Shall we go?”

Jack’s hand closed around her arm in a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” he said, and only Jack Crawford could make that sound like an order. Despite his gruffness, there something gentle in his eyes when they met with hers. “Stay where I can see you, and when I call, go back to the car.”

Alana nodded, mouth too dry to offer a greater response than a squeak of agreement. She watched them leave, at a pace perfectly in sync, and pretended not to notice that they took it in turns to look back at her. She slipped the gun into her bag and rubbed her hands together to keep them warm, but also to keep them from shaking.

If the timing was off, Hannibal might walk out and see her and Bedelia together. She found it difficult to imagine he would attack her on the spot, even if it was getting dark and they were reasonably isolated, but nothing good could come of being face-to-face with him like that.

She wished she’d called Margot, to hell with boundaries and excuses. It would have been selfish of her, knowing she would only make Margot worry, but there was something about handling a gun that quietened anything in her mind but impulse.

A marginal oversight, the plan had had not taken in the possibility it would rain-- with little choice, and no one to confer with, she made the decision to wait inside, hoping that wherever Jack and Pazzi were, they would know she had had to move position.

The back lobby was empty, the sound of polite applause coming from the first floor. She stayed close to the door and kept her eyes trained on the stairs.

Time passed so slowly it was impossible to know if it came as late as it felt, but Bedelia did emerge from the room upstairs. Her hair was curled and fell just past her shoulders; she took the stairs at a pace Alana had not been expecting.

Only at the sound of Alana’s footsteps as she stepped out of the shadows did Bedelia look up and notice her. She came to halt, immediately-- instinctively, perhaps-- turning to check over her shoulder.

Hannibal was not following her, at least not yet.

Bedelia passed her so quickly Alana’s neck hurt from turning so sharply. She followed her, outside, in time to hear Bedelia curse at the rain.

“I have an umbrella in the car,” Alana said, over the sound of the pour. Bedelia’s hair was already damp enough to loosen her curls. “ _Please_. Just give me a few minutes.”

She took a risk by turning her back to Bedelia, turning toward the car. Hands tucked into her pockets, she ducked her head and braced the rain, and after a few seconds, she heard the sound of heels clicking following closely behind her.

Somewhere, she imagined Jack was watching, grumbling about how she couldn’t take direction, complaining about how difficult she was; maybe Pazzi was trying to pacify him, insisting they give her a few minutes, admiring her initiative.

Alana unlocked the car doors and they got in at the same time. As Bedelia shut the door to the passenger seat, she seemed to visibly regret her decision.

“Where were you going?” Alana asked quietly. She didn’t look at the other woman, and instead chose to busy herself with turning the heating dial and opening the vents.

“I imagine you already know.”

Alana turned to the window. “If you were leaving--”

“-- I had planned to wait outside.” Du Maurier pulled down the overhead flap and tentatively rubbed away what she could of the eyeliner the rain had so quickly made short work of. Her purse clicked as she opened it and took out a tissue. “Hannibal and I were to leave from here: you know that. Everything about this night has been staged.”

“I could take you to the police.” Alana imagined what Pazzi and Jack would say if they returned to the car to find Bedelia sitting with her. She didn’t know if they would be incredibly pleased or incredibly pissed; she supposed they would take it in turns. It didn’t matter to her, not really-- not if it meant Bedelia was not the next body they would be standing over. “You could end this.”

“How did that go for you, Dr. Bloom?” There was an edge to her a voice: the quiet accusation of someone who had decided to fuck the system before it could fuck her. “We all know how that played out for Will Graham.”

The next question Alana asked was something else that hadn’t been on the list of things Jack wanted her to, but it was the first thing that had sprung to mind when she’d heard Hannibal had not disappeared alone. “Do you love him?”

“Did _you_?” She was met with a stare so blank it almost frightened her. “Does it _matter_?”

Alana did not respond to that; she did not know how to.

Bedelia pushed the flap back and leaned forward to get a better view of the doors. “He’ll be out in a few minutes, you know.”

Her warning did not deter Alana. “He killed your patient, didn’t he?” The first story she’d ever read about Du Maurier had been on TattleCrime, and Freddie had never been particularly concerned with sparing the gory details.

Bedelia looked uncomfortable, for just a second, before the stoniness returned. “It wasn’t as _quite_ so monochromatic.”

“He killed mine.” Bedelia knew this, of course, but Alana thought it worth reminding her. _We have something in common, and it isn’t our relationships with him._ “I have to live every day feeling like I failed her, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sit across from a patient again and not see her face, so I understand how you couldn’t.” Alana looked up. “That’s where my understanding of you, and your relationship with him, stops, I’m afraid.”

“Your understanding of me comes to a stop long before that,” Bedelia said.

“I’d like to understand,” Alana said, truthfully. She did not resent Bedelia, although she had in the beginning. Playing the FBI and running away with Hannibal certainly wasn’t something Alana could approve or condone, but then motives were complicated, delicate, _personal_ things, and who was she to judge Bedelia’s? Some women, when it became all too apparent that they could not change the world, made the decision to jump off of it. The jury was still out on which was the more successful of the two.

Alana was no woman scorned. She wasn’t angry anymore-- just curious; concerned, even.

“What did they want you to get from me?” Bedelia turned to her cooly. “Evidence? Where we’re going next?”

Alana raised an eyebrow. “If you tell me anything, he’ll…”

“Kill me. Yes,” Bedelia’s voice was sharp. “I expect he’ll assume I told you something even if I don’t. I expect you were all quite aware of that.”

“No.” Alana shook her head. This was not a set-up, or at least it hadn’t been to her. “ _No._ I wouldn’t be privy to that.”

“No.” Dryly, Bedelia agreed, “I suppose you wouldn’t be.”

“If you think...if you fear for your life, then that’s all the more reason to come with me. Whatever you’ve done, whatever he has had you do or whatever mistakes you’ve made, you belong on the side of the survivors, Doctor.”

“Side of the survivors?” Bedelia seemed almost amused as she reached for the door. “Goodnight, Dr. Bloom.”

“ _Please_ ,” Alana said, even as Bedelia closed the door against her plea. “Please, please,” she repeated, a whisper, as she watched Bedelia turn her jacket up to the rain and run along the path back to the library. “ _Fuck_ ,” she slammed her fists against the steering wheel, felt something rise in her throat that might have been a scream, might have been a sob. Bedelia was out of view and her vision clouded by the beginning of defeated tears when she thought to look to the space beside her.

On the floor of the passenger side was a tourist flyer for the Palazzo Vecchio, folded over three times in order to fit neatly into a clutch purse. She guessed it had fallen out when Bedelia had been fixing her makeup in the mirror, but had it fallen, really? Or had Bedelia left it behind intentionally?

When her door was opened abruptly, she jumped. The relief she felt that it was just a very damp haired Pazzi rendered her so dizzy for a moment that she missed whatever he was saying to her.

“Will will meet us back at the hotel,” he repeated, as the rain continued to fall. “Do you want to drive, or shall I?”

It was Pazzi’s car, and Alana did not think she had been paying enough attention on the drive here to be able to take them back without incident. She got out and crossed by the front of the car, the flyer rolled up in her palm.

“Where’s Jack?” she demanded, pulling her seatbelt on a little haphazardly as Pazzi glanced behind him, measuring up the space he had to reverse.

“He’ll meet us around the front.” Pazzi turned to her. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, but didn’t trust herself to speak. When they were parked in front of the building, waiting on Jack having presumably just dodged Hannibal, she uncurled her fingers and held the flyer out to Pazzi.

“She gave you this?” Pazzi turned it over in his hand, scanning each inch for another clue. “What did she say?”

“She left it here,” Alana admitted. “It’s probably nothing. But--”

“I’ll have Inspector Simone look into it,” Pazzi said quietly. He looked up, and she followed his gaze to Jack, jogging toward them. “This can stay between us, if you wish.”

“I trust them,” Alana said firmly. “I just wanted you to know first. I know what they’re like. They’d go alone.”

Pazzi stared at her for a long moment, as if he were considering something, and then he nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Bloom.” He tucked the flyer into the pocket of his jacket as Jack climbed into the backseat, mumbling about the weather.

* * *

“Hi.” Her affiliation with the bar was beginning to get ridiculous, by now-- the bartender watched her approach Will and grabbed a beer. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Will motioned to the empty bar stool beside him. “Of course not.” When she took the seat, and the aforementioned beer with thanks, he turned to her and smiled thinly. “How are you feeling? I know earlier must have been tough. I’m sorry it had to be you.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad I got to talk to her.” Alana paid for her beer and then silently questioned if she even wanted it. “I would have always wondered, I think, if I hadn’t.”

Will tilted his head. “How do you see her, Alana?”

She’d thought about little else but that since they’d come back from the lecture. The only thing that had distracted her, when she was alone in her room, was a goodnight text from Margot.

“I think she's trying to survive. She’s just going about it a different way than the rest of us.” She watched him rest his empty glass on the coaster, only to pick it up again. “How about you?”

“I think she’s everything he wanted me to be,” Will admitted. “I think that’s what frightens me the most.”

He said this in a low tone, as if he regretted voicing it, but Alana did not think it was an unreasonable thought at all. There was a part of her that wanted nothing more than to cry for Bedelia, but as awful as she knew it was, she pictured her dull eyes in her mind and could not keep from thinking _thank God it was her, instead of me._

Alana’s next question came with remorse: “Do you think he’ll kill her?”

Will’s expression was sympathetic, and for a moment, it was two years ago and they were in his classroom, and he was trying to reassure her about the fate of Abel Gideon. It seemed so ironic now; it seemed so long ago. “Du Maurier's smarter than we give her credit for. I wouldn’t be surprised if she disappears tonight, and none of us ever see her again.”

Alana liked that explanation. She could feel herself clinging to it. “I don’t think Jack would see it worthwhile to go after her,” she reasoned.

“With any luck, he’ll be too distracted with Hannibal,” Will agreed.

“You don’t really think it will be luck, do you?” When Will turned to her, Alana smiled weakly. “You don’t sound very hopeful.”

“It’s hard to be hopeful about any of this.” He set his glass down again and clenched and unclenched his fists. “I know what Jack thinks, I know what you must think. But I do hate him, Alana. I hate him for what he did to Abigail, to Beverly-- to _all_ of them.” He shook his head. “I hate him for what he did to us.”

“But?”

Will let out the breath he’d been holding for too long. “So much of who I am now is tangled up with him. I can’t always separate it. It’s not a case of putting bars around him and walking away-- not for me. I don’t know where to start.”

“I think we’re all impossibly tangled together; I think we probably always will be-- but that doesn’t have to be a curse. It can be a comfort, maybe.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to untangle it alone.”

A smile ghosted across Will’s face. “I thought you were going to suggest I see another psychiatrist.”

“They’re not all bad, Will.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Margot?” She’d been waiting for this-- the moment Will gave up wondering and bit the bullet. She could tell he was hoping for this explanation above the possible alternatives. “Therapy?”

She could lie, but that was not the kind of step forward she wanted them to take together. “No. That’s not it at all.”

Will raised his eyebrows: _Oh._ “I take it she told you about--”

_Him?_ Alana nodded. “Well, I guessed.”

“Just when you thought you couldn’t have a lower opinion of me, huh?” When Will met her eyes, she saw genuine remorse there. “Say whatever you’re thinking-- I know I deserve it.”

“You shouldn’t have slept with her,” Alana said, not put off at all by his self-pity. “I know you were going through hell, but you know better than to drag someone else into it, even if it is just one time; even if she instigated it.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I’m not a fool Will, I know she’s no angel. She used you, and it was vindictive and wrong, but I don’t believe for one second that you weren’t using her too.”

Will didn’t dispute this. He frowned. “I didn’t know how bad things were with her brother. If I had, I wouldn’t have-- I _wouldn’t_ have.”

Alana wasn’t sure she believed that, but she’d said what she needed to. She reached across, and laid a hand on top of his. Her tone was softer when she spoke again, as he looked up to meet her eye, confused. “I’m sorry about the baby.”

Will’s smile was grateful, but still sad. “We couldn’t have given it much of a life anyway. It would have been a weapon, for Margot, and an Abigail replacement for me.”

Alana liked to think they would have worked it out, somehow. It was not her place to decide something so awful had been for the best, but there was no doubt that, at least initially, it would have been an unhealthy environment for a child. She knew Margot and Will could do better than that, but she wasn’t so sure a year ago they had been emotionally or physically prepared to.

“Abigail wasn’t your child,” Alana said, softly but firmly. “She wasn’t mine. She was a bright young girl who’d been dealt a really hard hand in life, long before we met her. I’m not saying we didn’t fail in our own ways, but we did our best by her, which was a hell of a lot more than anyone who came before us did.” Talking about Abigail had always a way of wearing her out, having tears prick in her eyes, and maybe it always would. Alana supposed the day it did not tear her up inside all over again was not obtainable, but that way, at least, Abigail would never go unmissed. “I know it wasn’t enough, but maybe, if we’d had longer with her, it might have been.”

“The best,” Will said grimly, “didn’t save her.”

“No, it didn’t.” There was no denying that: whatever they had done or tried to do, Abigail had died. The best didn’t make her any less dead, but persecuting themselves-- and each other-- would certainly not bring her back: the last year had proven that. “But _we_ didn’t die, Will. And I have to believe there was a reason for that. And maybe it was just so I could meet Margot, and because you’re supposed to be a father again someday, but we are doing Abigail the _greatest_ disservice if we don’t let her memory make our corner of the world a better place.”

This was what they were left with, because nothing in the world could make Abigail’s death make sense: not to Will, who would quite possibly never be able to see her as anything more than the daughter he failed to protect; not to Alana, who would live with the unanswered questions and the flashbacks that came at night; not to Freddie and her attempts to piece together the full story, if only to give Abigail a better ending. Perhaps it was senseless even to Hannibal-- perhaps he’d walked away from that house with Abigail’s blood on his clothes and thought of the blonde child with his smile, half his size in the family photographs; perhaps he cried about it, even now, never really sure which death he felt more responsible for.

Will squeezed her hand the way she had wanted him to when they buried Abigail, and they watched each other’s eyes fill with fresh tears. Together, they made the unspoken decision to settle for the closest thing to closure they might ever have, in each other’s grief.


	30. sometimes love is war but sometimes you win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have this fic finished this weekend (finally, as I'm sure a lot of you are thinking) but it's bittersweet for me. I've loved writing this, yet Season 3 is only really days away, and with recent spoilers regarding these girls I'm sure you can imagine I am incredibly optimistic and excited. That's not to say I'm not also apprehensive, of course, but I plan to maintain this fic as the 'healthier' alternative should things in canon not be so smooth. 
> 
> A hundred thousand thank you's to everyone reading, from those who stuck this out since December and to those only finding it in the last few weeks. It means so very much to me that you've enjoyed it. Check back in a day or two for the final few chapters!

When Alana came downstairs the next morning, Pazzi was alone in the hotel lobby, a bottle of water on the coffee table in front of him, eyes cast out the glass wall overlooking the street.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said, quiet so as not to startle him from his thoughts.

When he turned to her, the smile on his face was genuine, and he seemed only a little surprised to see her an hour and a half earlier than they usually met. Alana hadn’t slept very well, but she knew she did not need to explain herself: when she closed her eyes, she saw Bedelia’s face.

“Dr. Bloom.” She took the seat next to him, knowing he would not mind her joining him. “Agent Crawford is still asleep, I gather.”

Alana nodded. She’d passed Jack’s room on the way downstairs, heard only the hum of the fridge through the door. “Have you seen Will this morning?”

Pazzi shook his head, an apology in his eyes. “I’m afraid not. I suspect I may have just missed him.”

“Probably.” It didn’t take more than a quick glance at Will to see that he was struggling to sleep much more than she was.

Pazzi looked at Alana very carefully, attentively, as if she were a problem he could not solve but had a great admiraton for, nonethless-- like he always did. It had made her uncomfortable when she’d first arrived, if only because she had trained herself to be suspicious of people who took such kind of interest in her.

“May I ask you something?” he asked tentatively.

“Of course.” Alana smiled at him, then, because any residual uneasiness was her concern, and not Pazzi’s. “What is it, Inspector?”

“Are you… _pleased_ that you came to Italy?” Almost as soon as this was spoken aloud, he seemed to regret it. Pazzi shook his head. “My apologies, Dr. Bloom, that is too personal a question. You do not have to answer that.”

She had come incredibly desensitized to personal questions in the last year, and Pazzi’s was nowhere near as intrusive as some. Without missing a beat, she nodded.

“There are things I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t come.” She was thinking of the life Hannibal had had long before her, all the things about his past that had helped her to understand his profile, at least objectively; the clarity that this had brought. “There were conversations I needed to have, bridges I needed to spend time rebuilding.” She smiled again. “And I’m pleased I met you, Inspector. You’ve been a wonderful buffer between us-- I can only imagine how relieved you’ll be when we go home.”

“Not at all. It wouldn’t have been feasible to do this alone,” Pazzi assured her, but then she supposed he was too polite to say anything but that. “Aside from this, you each bring something very unique to the table-- a wonderful team, if I dare say so. It would be impossible for us to have gotten this far without all three of you.”

She was sure he was saying this only for her benefit, but she appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. “That’s very kind of you,” Alana said, “but we haven’t caught him yet.”

“No.” Pazzi looked away. Into his jacket pocket, he dug around for something. He took out a small bottle of pills, the label of which she could not read, because, obviously, it was not in English.

Alana frowned. “Another headache?” He seemed to take pills with every meal they had, always citing a headache. He’d claimed it was a direct result of stress, and this had seemed too probable an explanation to question.

“I’m afraid so.” She watched him tip two pills of reasonable size onto his palm and swallow them without even lifting the bottled water. Before she could voice her admiration for this, the sound of a shrieking child stole her attention.

Across the lobby, a woman was struggling with two bags, while her crying toddler clung to her waist. A much older man in the smoking area spotted her through the glass and stubbed out his cigarette to hold the door open for her.

“I have always been fascinated by basic human kindness,” Pazzi commented quietly, following her stare.

Alana nodded, and hummed her agreement, but Pazzi did not drop it. “Compassion, forgiveness, honesty, trust-- they are all such admirable traits; such evidence of great _strength_ , Dr. Bloom, not weakness,” he said. Even when she looked away, awkward, Alana felt his eyes on her: he wasn’t just referring to the man who had held the door for the struggling stranger. “Do not let the world force you to believe differently; whatever you do, wherever you go, whoever you love-- if this life has taught me anything it is that you must not allow the world to tear such things out of you.”

She felt a blush rise on her cheeks, but nodded toward the bottle of pills he was slipping back into his jacket pocket. “Do I need a prescription for your wisdom?” she said, and he laughed with her, but it was too hollow; a note was off.

“I’m seeing my children today,” he announced, after a long moment. “You don’t mind if we delay the investigation for a few hours, do you?”

“Oh.” Alana shook her head. “Of course not. What do you want us to do while you’re gone?”

“You’ve done quite enough, Dr. Bloom,” Pazzi insisted kindly. “Take some time to yourself.”

“I could talk to Jack about the flyer Bedelia left behind,” she suggested. “The town hall, wasn’t it?” Pazzi was quick to shake his head.

“I spoke to Inspector Simone. It is his wish that we leave that for his detectives.”

Alana frowned. “Oh. Well I suppose it was too convenient to be a worthwhile lead, wasn’t it?”

Pazzi’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t say that at all. Your conversation with Dr. Du Maurier was instrumental in securing a...possible location. _You_ have been instrumental.” His eyes were very serious. “But it is out of your hands now, Dr. Bloom.”

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the thought that she could use some of this free time to call Margot and find out what the hell she was up to. Maybe, subconsciously, she was simply content with hearing what she wanted to hear. Whatever the reason, Alana missed Pazzi’s emphasis on it being beyond _her_ control-- not _theirs_ , collectively, and certainly not _his_.

* * *

It seemed as good a solution as any to Margot.

She couldn’t go to the police, but it was impossibly unfair Mason and Cordell had the money, the business, _and_ the endless opportunity to prey on new victims. Justice was subjective: if she couldn’t kill her brother, she had to find another way to destroy him.

Contrary to past history and Mason’s egotistical belief, Margot was sure there was still someone who could not be bought, who would take attempts at blackmail and use them to further assassinate the reputation of her brother and Doemling, and that someone just happened to have too much time on their hands and a somewhat-notorious hunger for a scandal.

Margot met with Freddie Lounds three times in total, although they spoke frequently over the phone. She did not tell Alana, because she knew what her reaction would be without needing to.

“The nature of Tattle Crime is that we investigate and report _crimes_ ,” Lounds explained delicately, in a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ kind of way, the first time they sat together face-to-face.

“My brother commits the kind of crimes that will always go unpersecuted,” Margot admitted, taking a slow sip of her Espresso. “Except by the media, perhaps.”

Margot lacked physical evidence, but it quickly became apparent that that was not a prerequisite to peak Freddie’s interest.

Lounds quickly changed her attitude at the prospect of exclusivity, and told Margot she’d actually been fascinated by the business for years now, had always known there was something off about their family-- but relations had been kept so tight and information so hush-hush that she’d never been able to put together enough for a substantial story.

Margot told Freddie about the abuse inflicted by Mason on the children who attended the summer camps, of his new affiliation with Doemling and _his_ past discrepancies. When they met a second time, Freddie had quotes from witnesses and victims extracted from police records, and together they negotiated through the accounts Margot had access to online, highlighting suspicious investments for further investigating.

If Margot’s flippant comments about meat contamination and the breaching of animal welfare laws sprung Freddie to further action, then that was a fortunate bonus. The irony of a vegetarian being the one to take down the most successful meat factory in this part of the country was so amusing to Margot it almost had her reconsidering telling Alana, if only so she could hear her laugh through the phone line when she eventually finished chiding her.

She saved Mason’s run-in with Hannibal and Will to the end, wanting to be positive Freddie was taking it seriously before she rewarded her the sensationalism she knew she craved. Margot was careful to remove herself from the re-telling, and Freddie was too enamoured with the twist in the tale to direct her attention to Margot.

“I _knew_ it,” Freddie said, frantically scrawling into a notebook. “I didn’t believe he’d fallen into a pig pen, not really. Jack Crawford swore it didn’t, but I was sure it had to have _something_ to do with Hannibal.”

Margot made the decision to invest the money Cordell had used to pay off Alana in a rival, but much smaller meat packaging company. They had been struggling to stay afloat for years, and Mason had always been very skilled at bullying them, and so a share was almost handed to her with eagerness. After that, the blog updates came in pieces, each more damaging than the last, and Margot watched every penny she’d spent filter back into the account she’d set up, and then some, as Freddie’s stories were picked up by newspapers and Mason’s investors and clientele alike rushed to disassociate themselves with the Verger name.

The third time they met was for a celebratory drink of sorts, in the hotel where Freddie appeared to be staying.

“I pressed a number of your brother’s business associates for comments,” Freddie told her as they raised their glasses in toast. “Most of them declined.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

“One of them-- Carlyle, I think it was-- wanted to speak to you directly.” Freddie paused to raise an eyebrow at Margot. “He seemed apologetic.”

“Apologetic enough to write a cheque?” Margot asked, only half-joking.

Freddie smirked. “I couldn’t tell. I could pass your number along, if you want.”

“Don’t,” she said. She did not trust herself to listen to Richmond lie to her-- to swear he was not aware how awful her brother was, to feign surprise at the revelations, to offer his condolences for the life he would say he couldn’t possibly imagine-- and not strike out with a scathing remark about his wife’s unfaithfulness. It was not that she wanted to protect Dolores or that she thought the marriage was worth saving-- she was simply content with the fact they deserved each other.

Freddie shrugged, unaffected. “Doemling’s ignoring my calls. I stopped by yesterday, but he had me escorted off the farm.” Her flippance made it clear this was not an unusual part of Freddie’s day. “I imagine he’s not best pleased with _you_ at the moment, either.”

“Doemling has too much to lose by coming after me now.” Too many people had been made aware of his past-- the local police would be watching him, if they were already not reconsidering his freedom now that Freddie’s involvement had made a mockery of them for their obliviousness to his previous crimes with the vulnerable. “He’s not as impulsive as my brother. He’ll wait it out.”

Whatever Freddie was going to ask next was interrupted by a repetitive buzzing from the cell phone between them. The moment her eyes fell on the Caller ID, a European number, Freddie jumped to answer it without bothering to excuse herself.

“What?” The person on the other end of the line barely got a word out before Freddie’s eyes were widened and her drink was abandoned so abruptly on the counter of the bar that wine splashed out around the rim. “ _What_? No. No. Well what are you doing talking to me about it? _Follow_ them. Keep me updated-- via _text._ I’ll make some calls.”

When she hung up, Margot raised an eyebrow at her quizzically.

“Hannibal Lecter’s been apprehended in Italy,” she said, voice low, but brimming with anticipation, too excited to keep it to herself, despite her obvious frustration at having to find out over the phone. “I need to go.”

Margot felt the pit of her stomach drop. She swallowed hard and focused on breathing evenly instead of looking at Freddie. “Who caught him?”

Freddie did not look up from the message she was frantically typing into her Blackberry. “I can’t give you those kinds of details. Check the website later.”

“Has anyone been hurt?”

Freddie glanced up at her, briefly, obviously surprised by the concern-- and it was concern, not panic, although that was quickly setting in-- in Margot’s voice. “Why do you ask? Or, more accurately, why do you _care_?”

It took an obscene amount of effort to smooth her suit jacket against her stomach and shrug. “No reason-- curiosity, really.”

It was apparent Freddie did not believe her, but she also did not have the time to interrogate her further, and Margot knew this. “Right. Well, I’ll be in touch.”

Freddie hurried off without offering to pay the tab, a fact which would have been amusing had she not left under a cloud of a potentially fatal incident she no doubt hoped to exploit. Margot took out her phone, finger hovering over Alana’s name, but then thought of what she would do if Alana didn’t answer, and called Andrew instead.

He’d driven her to meet with Freddie, aware she would be drinking, while he picked up the last of his things from his loft in Baltimore. He had not asked her why on earth she was conspiring with Freddie Lounds, and if he had read the latest blog posts so he wouldn’t need to ask then he did not let on; his only request was that she not mention his sister, which of course Margot had no intention of doing anyway.

He answered the phone with a joke about Freddie Lounds having pissed her off already, but sobered immediately when she told him of the call the other woman had just received. His voice was strained with panic when he told her he was on his way to pick her up, and she completely understood.

She didn’t feel better, not at all-- but, for the first since Alana had left, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

* * *

Alana was fresh out of the shower, hair wrapped in a towel, when a knock came on the door to her room. Jack had stopped by her room on his way out for a walk alone some time ago, leaving her with translated files to keep her busy. She expected it was him, at the door, back to check that she hadn’t wasted half the day just because she could.

Instead, she looked through the peep-hole to find an unfamiliar man standing there. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle, until she watched him take a badge from his pocket.

“Dr. Bloom?” He held out the badge for her to inspect as she opened the door just enough to make eye contact. “I was sent to get you.”

Her stomach lurched. Her knees felt weak. The towel on her head was suddenly too heavy; there was a draught on her neck so fierce it almost made her shiver. “What happened?”

“I would advise you to take a coat," the detective suggested gently. They stared at each other for as long as it took Alana to realize she was being purposely kept in the dark.

She pulled her hair out of the towel as she shoved her feet into boots. She grabbed her coat, as instructed, and paused only to tie her hair haphazardly back from her face without even bothering to look in the mirror.

“Is it Will?” she demanded, following him down the hallway and into the elevator. “Jack will be back soon. We should call him and tell him to meet us at the hospital.” His silence kicked her into autopilot, had her thinking damage control, preparing to be the one who would pick of the pieces. She realized she’d left her cell phone in the hotel room, but she didn’t dare go back for it. “How bad is it?” she tried, more desperate than frustrated. The detective sighed apologetically as the elevator stopped and he stepped out.

Only when they got into the car did he seem to realize he couldn’t completely shield her. He looked between her and the police radio helplessly, as Inspector Simone barked orders across it in Italian.

“What’s he saying?” she half-pleaded. “ _Tell_ me. Where are we even _going_?”

He ignored her for the best part of the journey. A sign told them to take a left for the hospital: she watched him turn right and felt something inside her falter.

“Someone’s dead.” Her voice cracked until the weight of saying that aloud. She watched this stranger with wide eyes as he made no attempt to correct her. “Who is it? Is it Jack?”

Simone could not hear her, was speaking to all of his officers at once, but as if on cue his voice cut through the silence, the only sound but the hammering of her heart: _il corpo di Pazzi…_

“Pazzi?” A gasp, under the sound whatever foreign order ensued, but the detective next to her heard it nonetheless. Alana shifted in her seat, tugging on the seatbelt that suddenly felt too tight pressed aginast neck, her skin, across her chest. “No. _No_. I was just with Pazzi this morning. He can’t be--” She shook her head. “No. He was going to see his children.”

When Simone’s voice cut off, the detective turned to her. “Dr. Lecter has been apprehended for his murder.”

“Hannibal?” Of course Hannibal had done it, but _apprehended?_ “No-- _no_.” She shut her eyes, felt a sweat break out on her forehead. “It’s a _trap_. He’ll hurt Simone. He’ll get away.”

“It’s not just the Inspector. Agents Crawford and Graham are there, and our police force. The media too, I imagine, by now.”

“It’s a trap,” Alana cried-- helpless, hopeless. _Why didn’t anybody ever listen to her?_ “He’ll _kill_ them.”

“I can take you to the station, if you prefer,” the detective reasoned, obviously surprised by her reaction. “If you would feel safer there.”

That wasn’t an option, even as her hands began to shake and her eyes began to sting. “No. Take me to them.”

There were polizia cars all along the streets. She saw _Palazzo Vecchio_ on a sign as they grew closer to the building, and then she started to cry.

The car had barely come to a stop when she had threw her seatbelt off and got out. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Simone talking on the phone, pacing alongside a car with blacked out windows, but she did not turn to him, instead ducking under the police tape and taking off toward the entrance, past the detectives and forensic officers milling around.

And then Jack was catching her in his arms, stepping out of nowhere, her sobs muffled by her sudden proximity to his chest. Maybe he held her for a moment, or maybe it was five, but it felt like it was a year overdue and nowhere near as comforting as it should have been.

Then, he held her at arm's length while she tried in vain to get around him. “I need to see him,” she insisted frantically. “I need to see Pazzi.”

Quietly, and with firm hands still holding her shoulders, he turned her around. “No, Alana,” he said, obviously haunted himself. “You don’t.”

He led her back to the car where her polizia escort was waiting, the passenger door still open for her to get in. She did, but the tears did not stop. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then she said it another three times for good measure.

Jack looked to the junior detective. “Follow us to the station.” Only then, as he reached across to squeeze her arm did she realize there was blood on his sleeve, in the cracks of his palm, under his fingernails. She was too afraid to ask whose blood it was-- Pazzi’s? Bedelia’s? Will’s?

She was cried out by the time they were reunited a little over a half hour later, but just as distraught. Will, looking very alive but all the worse for wear, brought her a lukewarm cup of coffee from a vending machine and told her it would be over soon.

“It’s all my fault,” Alana said, oblivious to the fact Will could not meet her eye. “There was a flyer Bedelia left behind yesterday, with the name of that place on it. I gave it to Pazzi. I didn’t think--”

“You gave it to him because you couldn’t tell us,” Will summarised regretfully. When she looked up, he shook his head. “Alana, this isn’t your fault.”

“He’s right. Pazzi knew what this was. He knew what he was getting into.” Jack cleared his throat. “Alana...he was dying anyway.”

“ _What_?”

Jack’s eyes were bloodshot, but she could not recall if they had been when she’d met him at the scene. “He had an aneurysm on a specific part of his brain-- it couldn’t be removed, and it presented few symptoms, but it was growing, and he knew it was only a matter of _when_ it would rupture. He didn’t know how long he had left, but the doctors told him it wouldn’t be long.”

Alana didn’t believe him. “No-- he would have mentioned it. He would have told me.”

Will’s hand on her knee was a cold comfort, even through the denim of her jeans. “It’s true. He knew he was going to die. He’d known months before we even got here. That’s why he wanted money from me, in the beginning-- for his children.”

The headaches she’d attributed to stress, the agitation that came suddenly, the words of wisdom-- it all made sense now, but the implication that that somehow made all of this justified was repulsive to her. “Even if he was going to die,” she flinched away from Will’s touch, earning a frown from him and a sigh from Jack, “he shouldn’t have died like _that_.”

The hanging, the disembowelment, whatever horror had come before that was as yet unknown-- Jack may have stopped her from seeing it for herself, but her mind crafted the most awful images nonetheless.

Will shook his head again, exasperated. “Alana, he wanted to die _for_ this.”

Pazzi had emphasized how determined he was to Alana when he’d told her about the promise he had made to the mother of the man who had been prosecuted for Hannibal’s crimes here long ago: _I would see to it that her son’s name would be cleared--_ but Alana had never dreamed he would really have it be the last thing he did.

“If he was _ill_ , maybe he didn’t know what he wanted,” Alana bit back, frantic, as if anything could be changed now. “Maybe he didn’t know--”

“I know it’s easier to tell yourself that,” Jack said, meeting her eyes. “I know it’s easy to believe that. It’s instinct, even. But it was what the man wanted, Alana. The fact he was ill just made that all the more important.”

Alana knew where that was coming from-- Jack, who hadn’t been able to let Bella go, was given a new perspective. And maybe it would help him to sleep at night, and maybe it would help him to understand Bella’s motivations for trying to take her life in a way he hadn’t fully been able to before, and maybe it would even help him to grieve-- but an innocent man shouldn’t have died for the sake of anyone’s clarity of thought.

“You knew,” she said, as a nauseating realization set in. “You _all_ knew. Did you _plan_ this? Did you all plan this, all along, behind my back?”

She thought of all the conversations between Jack and Will and Pazzi that she had walked into, only to have them all fall silent. It was just like it had been the last time they’d been plotting against Hannibal, except this time, they’d succeeded in keeping her in the dark until the very end.

Betrayal was just as sour on the second tasting.

“He didn’t want you to know,” Jack insisted. Alana thought it incredibly convenient it was the fault of the man who was no longer able to defend himself. “He knew what happened last year. None of us wanted that again.”

She looked to Will, who nodded quietly. She didn’t know if the tears that filled her eyes were angry or sad. She felt horribly betrayed, but then maybe they did too. “You thought I would go to Simone. You thought I would stop you.”

Jack’s eyes were dark with conviction. “What we didn’t want a repeat of was you getting hurt.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alana half-growled, half-cried, as she used the corner of a tissue Will handed her to wipe her eyes, the painful tenderness of the skin underneath a reminder of how many tears she’d shed. “You just didn’t trust me.”

“You’re damn right I didn’t trust you.” Jack’s tone was sharp, unapologetic: he held no regret whatsoever for lying to her, and he was making no attempts to hide that. “I didn’t trust you to look out for yourself in a situation like that. I didn’t trust you not to get yourself killed helping one of us.” He paused, and looked from Will to her again. “Pazzi didn’t either. So we made the decision that we weren’t going to put you in that position.”

“It wasn’t _your_ decision to make.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and then he lowered his voice, “I know you were close to him. I’m _sorry_ , Alana. But it had to be this way. We didn’t have a choice. Pazzi _knew_ that.”

“He has a family,” Alana managed to mutter as her eyes fell, crumpling the tissue in her hands just for something to do that might keep them from shaking. “He _had_ a family.”

“His ex-wife has been notified,” Will explained, letting out a deep breath. “His children are on their way to speak with Simone.”

Alana nodded, but she felt anything but resolve. “And Hannibal?”

“The Bureau are sending Agents to escort him home. If the paperwork goes through alright, and the Mayor and Simone give the word, we’ll be on the first flight back to Virginia tomorrow.” Jack got to his feet and looked between her and Will. “I’m going to see how it’s going with him-- no doubt he’s running rings about Simone. Someone will bring you back to the hotel when you’re ready.”

When she was alone with Will, he clasped his hands together, and she imagined it was so he wouldn’t make the mistake of reaching out to touch her again. “I don’t expect this makes you feel any better, but I didn’t know very much, either, or at least not that it would be today. Jack thought I would tell Hannibal, probably.”

“You’re right,” Alana said, staring hard at Will. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. I don’t doubt you kept your own secrets.”

“We all did,” Will said, pointedly. “ _You_ didn’t tell Jack you were working with the Verger’s.”

“It wasn’t relevant to the investigation.” It continued to surprise her how automatically defensiveness was stirred up inside her these days. “And it wasn’t ‘the Verger’s.’ Anything that happened here was on Mason’s command. Margot had nothing to do with it.”

“ _I_ know that,” Will agreed, “But you didn’t trust us to make the distinction; you didn’t want to risk Margot being implemented in something he had orchestrated.” Will looked at her with tired eyes. “We were all protecting somebody, Alana.”

Protecting someone else, but also protecting _themselves_. They’d gotten quite adept at that.

“What about Bedelia?” Alana asked, swallowing against the scream in her throat that dared to ask, _who is protecting_ her _?_

Will held her eye. “She’s gone.”

“You know that for a fact, do you?” It made her sick to think of the alternative.

“No. It’s what he told me, what I hope, and what no evidence found so far has challenged.” Will stood up. “I know this isn’t perfect, but it’s an ending, finally.” It didn’t feel like an ending at all, but then things rarely did in the real world. “I’m going to check on Jack-- are you going to stay?”

Alana sniffed and nodded. “I’ll wait to see Pazzi’s children. Offer my condolences.”

Will nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you later then.” He was halfway through the door when Alana called him back.

“I’m really glad you’re alright,” she said, tone heavy and weary even to her own ears. The shadow that flickered across Will’s face seemed to suggest he wasn’t sure of something: either that she was glad, or that he really was alright.

“Thanks,” he said, because she suspected it was a much easier out than ‘I’m not alright at all’ was-- it was easier than explaining why seeing Hannibal in chains did not feel like the victory he’d hoped it would.

* * *

Andrew must have called Alana’s cell thirty times before she finally answered. He was driving, but he only relented and handed the phone to Margot when his sister’s broken voice filled his ears and he realized he would have to pull over.

“Alana?” Margot didn’t know what else to say. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Margot?” She didn’t just sound completely drained; she sounded completely confused. “Why are you with my brother?”

“ _Priorities_ , Alana.” Margot insisted sharply. “Are you are alright?”

Andrew pulled into a filling station and motioned for Margot to put the phone on speaker. As she did so, Alana answered, “I’m fine,” with a sniff.

“Elaborate,” Margot said, but she had to force herself to be dry around the relief that came as a sigh when she met Andrew’s eyes and saw they were no longer wide with panic. “How fine? Did you get hurt?”

“No. No.” Alana sounded so miserable Margot found this hard to believe. Not ten seconds later, they were given an explanation: “Pazzi’s dead,” she said.

“Oh,” Margot said, as a Andrew’s brow creased and he mouthed ‘ _who?_ ’ to her. She was about to answer him when she realized she wasn’t entirely sure, either. “The Italian Detective?” she tried hopefully.

“Yes.” Alana sounded very small. “Hannibal killed him.”

“Yeah, we heard that part,” Andrew cut in, so distracted he didn’t care if he was being curt with her. “Alana-- are you sure you’re alright? Where are you now?”

“I’m at the hotel-- I’m fine, really. I wasn’t even _there_.” She sounded regretful of this, but they most definitely were not. “How did you hear, anyway? It all happened so fast. It’s hit the news there already?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Margot said, ignoring the way Andrew’s brow raised in silent judgement. “When are you coming home?”

She explained Jack Crawford and Will Graham were planning to fly back, Hannibal in tow, as soon as FBI representatives had arrived to clear the paperwork. It would likely be sometime in the morning. She would take the next commercial flight home; she wasn’t ready to deal with it so wholly, and they were both grateful she had the sense-- however belated-- to remove herself directly from the situation.

“We can pick you up from the airport,” Andrew assured her. “Just call us and--”

“-- I appreciate it, but I’ll have to go to the bureau first.” There was a pause. “Jack will send someone to get me, I imagine.”

Margot could tell it was difficult for Andrew not to take offence to this, because it was difficult for her too. It had been two weeks since they’d seen her, but seeing _them_ again was the last thing on Alana’s mind. It was a challenge not to be bitter, but then they would have to live with the fact that Jack and Will and even Hannibal had a connection to her that they would never really understand, no matter how much they loved her.

They talked a little more, but Margot could tell Alana’s heart was not in the conversation. When she made the excuse of needing to shower, Margot was not surprised.

“We’ll see you when we see you, then,” Andrew said, as he turned his keys and the engine roared back to life. “You know how it is. Call if you need anything.”

“I will.” Margot took her off speaker as Andrew glanced in the rear view mirror and pulled back onto the road, breathing much easier now. There was hesitation as Alana noticed the change. “Margot?”

“Mm?” She didn’t look to Andrew, but she knew he was trying not to hear. His fngers played with the radio dials aimlessly.

“I miss you.” She wasn’t sure if Alana was crying or laughing, her voice was so shaky. “I’ve really missed you.”

“Good,” Margot said, but it was only because she didn’t know what else to say-- Alana already knew it was reciprocated. “I’ve really missed your dog,” Margot admitted, and it made Alana laugh, so it hardly mattered that it was a complete lie.

It wasn’t long after they’d hung up that Andrew turned to her. “You haven’t told Alana you’ve been meeting with Lounds?” He took the phone from her and slipped it into his pocket with the hand not holding the steering wheel. Margot couldn’t help but think he sounded much too judgemental for a man who had only told his sister about his girlfriend when he had planned to move to another state to be with her.

“ _You_ can tell her, if you care so much,” Margot said, sweetly enough to have him double-taking across the car to decipher if she was being serious or snarky.

“No thanks, I’ll let you bite that bullet.” He smirked. “You might want to buy some flowers, soften the blow.”

Margot turned to look out the car window. “Flowers wilt and die,” she said blankly. She only turned back to him when she heard chuckling. “What?”

“I thought Lecter was a bad valentine,” Andrew said, and Margot glared, but there was no wrath behind it. “Seriously, though,” Andrew continued, “I’m sorry things with your family weren’t so great.” There was a pause, and then he shrugged. “I hope you’ll like ours better, but if you don’t, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the press about it.”

Andrew joked about things like this, where Alana would have been cautious not to offend her, but it was only to mask the softness of his earlier statement: _I hope you’ll like ours better._ She didn’t know if this welcome and acceptance came from a begrudging respect for his sister’s decisions, or from sympathy from what he’d obviously read about Mason, but it was a chance of belonging that her own family had never offered her. For so long, Margot had wanted the money and the power and she hadn’t thought about all of the other things she had been deprived of growing up in that house.

This wasn’t the life she’d stove for, not even close to the wealth and revenge she’d sought for years, but that did not mean it wasn’t valuable. Maybe she was simply a kind of rich, a kind of sucessful, that Mason would never be.

In response to his request, Margot smirked. “We’ll see,” she said, and Andrew just laughed.


	31. we're lost but holding hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shamelessly dragging this out one more day because I want the epilogue to be perfect, (and also because I'm not emotionally ready for this to be over-- lol) but enjoy this final 'official' chapter. I'll save my parting speech for tomorrow's update, but it goes without saying by now how grateful I am for you all.

It ought to have come as no surprise to see Adam waiting for her in the arrivals lounge of the airport, because Alana was well aware of how stubborn her usually easygoing younger brother could be when it came to helping her and Andrew-- regardless of how difficult she supposed they had made it for him. It _ought_ to have come as no surprise, but then it had been two weeks with little-to-no-contact, and she had not thought herself deserving of such a welcome.

“How did you…?” was all she managed before relief took her breath away. She hadn’t wanted anyone to meet her at the airport because she imagined it would be better that she take this time to herself, but only after she had landed and was watching lovers run into each other’s arms and children wrap around their parents legs and mothers hold their teenage children with wet eyes and wide smiles did she realize that alone was the very last thing she wanted to be.

“I tracked your flight,” Adam admitted, smirking as he took her bags. He hesitated for just a second before pulling her into a hug. “Andy and your girlfriend may never speak to me again for beating them to it.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “Do they know you came for me?”

Adam nodded. “They’re sulking.” When they stepped apart, Adam shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to be outnumbered at Christmas.”

As obvious as Adam was-- forcing nonchalance about her relationship with Margot as a way of demonstrating his support, as he snuck a glance at her and they walked toward the airport doors-- Alana knew it was well-intended. Strangely, the prospect of a family Christmas did not seem quite as daunting as it once would have, even if it was still months off. She filled it away in her mind under ‘things to discuss with Margot,’ and then stifled a laugh as she imagined at the reaction it would generate.

“They’ll be long over it by then,” Alana said-- hopefully, and not because she thought Andrew and Margot would really resent Adam, but because his joking made her think of all the reasons they had to resent _her._ “You didn’t have to come, you know,” she said, changing the subject as they crossed the car park. “I would have been alright. I’ve been enough of a burden.”

Adam stopped as they approached the car, his eyes narrowing to focus on her. “You’re my _sister_ ,” he said, very seriously, with a hint of disappointment Alana wished she could unhear. “Al, you could never be a burden.”

“We’ve seen more of each other this last year than we have since…” Alana tucked a loose strand of hair from her ponytail behind her ear, awkward. “Well, since Mom and Dad died.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Adam shook his head, digging his hands into the pocket of his jeans for his car keys. “You were always so busy, and Andrew was always so distant. I missed _both_ of you.”

Adam wasn’t just optimistic to a fault, he was also right: Alana _had_ been busy before-- her days had been consulting and teaching and professional studies for psychiatric journals and the occasional patient when someone at the Bureau requested it; her energy had been being torn between Jack Crawford and Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. There hadn’t been room in her life for friendships that were not tainted by their associations with death or the family she hadn’t realized she’d been missing or a relationship that would take time and _heart_.

Her work had made her so happy, instilled such pride and confidence in her for a long time, and she wanted that again someday, but she also wanted her life to amount to more than credentials on a file. Life was too short, too precious and fragile, to be defined by a reputation that impressed only the people who didn’t really matter.

“Of course it’s not a bad thing. I missed you too.” She waited until Adam had finished putting her things in the car to reach for his arm. “I’m glad that this brought us closer together. I’m _thankful_.”

Adam shrugged her off and gave a pointed look. “It shouldn’t take you almost dying for us to be able to maintain a line of communication.”

“It shouldn’t have, but it did.” Alana smiled weakly. “It doesn’t matter how it was before: we’ll do better from here.”

Adam looked as if he wanted to argue, but then he let out a sigh and nodded toward the car. “Where are we going?”

All she wanted to do was say “ _Delaware,”_ to show up outside Margot’s house with a kiss that might go somewhere towards undoing her absence-- but, she’d promised Jack. Things weren’t quite finished, not yet.

“Quantico,” she told her brother, and then she got into the car.

* * *

Will and Alana sat on either side of Jack, silent, and Purnell’s eyes fell on them only long enough to acknowledge they were in the room. It was quickly made apparent that Jack was the one whose relationship with the FBI she was bothered about salvaging.

“Well. There you are, Jack,” she said, but there was nothing satisfied in her tone. “You were the one to catch him after all.”

“I didn’t do it on my own,” Jack replied, humble, but careful not elaborate-- a final attempt to protect them.

“Of course you didn’t.” Purnell attempted to stare him out, but Jack was easily intimidated. “We’ve spoken to the Italian Authorities,” she conceded tightly. “They want no part in any of this.”

“Then it’s a matter for the Bureau,” Jack reasoned.

“It’s a matter for the courts,” Purnell corrected, folding her arms. “Some will say this was a more elaborate form of entrapment, Jack.”

“It _was_.” Jack stood. “It doesn’t matter if they throw all of the Italian murders out of court. There is ample evidence of his murders _here._ You have three witnesses in this very room.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll all be called as witnesses.” As if this were a threat, as if this were a surprise. “He’ll be tried in Maryland.”

“Maryland doesn’t have the death penalty,” Jack reminded her, not necessarily because it was of interest to him but because they all expected it would be of the utmost importance to _her,_ after Will’s trial.

“Yes, well, Baltimore has a psychiatric hospital for a reason,” Kade said, not making eye contact with any of them, and then realization struck Alana-- Purnell and Chilton’s alliance was no coincidence. They’d been striking a bargain.

She wondered what Kade got out of the arrangement, if Chilton got Hannibal.

“Chilton will relish that kind of control over our access, you know,” Jack muttered.

Kade looked up, something in her eyes that had Alana reconsidering her completely. “Let him have the control. Today, we finish with Dr. Lecter once and for all, Jack.”

Perhaps part of her deal with Chilton was that Jack be shut out, as a way to protect his reputation, as a way to force him into moving forward. Alana knew that to Purnell, she was replaceable and Will was a liability-- Jack was the one she had known professionally for some time, the brilliant guru holding the Behavioural Science Unit together, the grieving agent who made haste decisions with his back to a wall that should not have been a reflection of all his years of hard work for the Bureau.

There was not a fraction of Alana’s mind that disagreed, if this were in fact the case. Whatever mistakes Jack had made, he deserved a second chance.

He had devoted more of his life to the Bureau than her or Will and, more importantly, she suspected he needed its stability more than either of them. She wanted him to have a new version of normal; she wanted to see Jack rebuild.

Later, she stood alone in a quiet corner outside of the interview suite. She’d been invited to listen in, with the possibility of joining them, but it had only taken Hannibal to meet her eyes through the glass, and although she knew he couldn’t see her, she knew he knew she was there. She walked out not because she was frightened, but because she did not trust herself to listen to Hannibal toy with Jack and not punch through the glass.

“He’s ready to go,” Jack announced gruffly when he stepped out of the room, and then he seemed to realize it was only her left to bark this to and he lowered his tone, “Unless… if you want to talk to him, I can have the boys wait a little longer.”

“No,” she said too quickly, too shakily. “No, thank you.”

Somehow speaking to Hannibal was something she was still not quite ready for. There was nothing to say, and yet there was too much. Where would she start? How would she _stop_?

“Well, if you change your mind,” Jack said, trying too hard to be flippant when she could tell he didn’t understand it. Jack was the kind to face things head-on, to push aside his emotions and deal with the fallout later; Alana was more cautious, and she’d had the time to consider all the ways the conversation could go. “They’ll keep him in the hospital for now, until the Judge makes their recommendation. He’ll be officially arraigned in the morning. We bagged the 9 o’clock slot, if you want to be there.”

She didn’t. “I’ll see,” she said, when really she had no such intention.

“Alright. Well, you should get off. I’ll finish up here.” Jack spoke so matter-of-factly; he sounded so in control. It occurred to her then that this was exactly what he had wanted all along, the fulfillment of years worth of blood, sweat and tears. He wasn’t thinking that a room away someone they had both cared for was handcuffed to a table-- he was celebrating that he had finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper, once and for all.

She didn’t resent him for seeing this as a victory-- couldn’t, after all he’d been through. She thought of Inspector Pazzi and wondered if he too would have deemed this a successful ending.

Perhaps it was the thought of the dead detective, or the fact she did not feel the same triumph as Jack; that she did not slip back into the Bureau as seamlessly as he had. Maybe it was exhaustion and jet-lag getting the best of her. It might simply have been an accumulation of the last year and a half coming to a stormy head, the flipping a switch now it was over and so anticlimactic.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Jack could tell, the furious way she tried to blink them away only making it more obvious, and he’d dealt with her crying enough by now to know how to handle it. He stepped to the side a little, so as people could pass them and they would not be interrupted (although most had gone home by now), and then he lowered his tone, “What is it, Alana?”

“I don’t--” She broke off to take a breath, and then she met his eyes and forced a weak smile that only made her feel like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m just sorry for everything.” He waited, and it took only a moment for her explanation to bleed out: “I brought him into your lives.”

She had been the one to recommend Dr. Lecter, her esteemed mentor, to Jack. It may only have been the intention back then that he would be Will’s guide, but gradually, he had taken over all of their lives. _If she’d recommended somebody else…_

Jack shook his head, distracting her from her self-criticism. “No. _I_ brought him into our lives, you just... _suggested_ it.” The mess he made of that attempt of comfort almost made her laugh. “Okay?” he pressed firmly. She nodded, although of course it still wasn’t okay at all. A moment passed, and then Jack was speaking again: “What happened was not your fault, but if it hadn’t been for you, Alana-- I would have died in that house.”

Alana couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes. “Oh, yeah. I was a great help, Jack.”

“He was going to kill me, Alana. He _would_ have, if you hadn’t showed up right when you did.” Jack stared hard at her, and she had learned you most certainly did not argue with Jack Crawford when he wore an expression like that, although she could not recall a time when she had not tried. “I would have been long dead by the time Will got there.”

As strange as it was, as much as she had analyzed and relived that night in her mind, such a simple observation hadn’t occurred. She _had_ posed a distraction that night; she _had_ been the first to call the police. It wasn’t much in terms of a heroic effort, but it was the best she could have done with a bulletless gun and a panicked mind. More than that, it had proved effective, at least in sparing Jack.

Just when she thought she’d found her feet as much as she could hope to, Jack offered her one final gift: “He would have killed you too, if Abigail hadn’t gotten you out of there when she did.”

She had never believed Abigail had pushed her out of malice-- it was much more likely that she had been coached to kill, manipulated, like all of the others. But now, Alana thought of the sister Hannibal had lost, the theory she knew Will fostered that Abigail had been somewhat of a surrogate for her; she thought of _“I’m so sorry,”_ and the countless times people had told her while she was recovering that she’d gotten lucky, even when she’d been too bitter and hurt to understand it at the time. Spinal surgeries and physical therapy was nothing on what she imagined Hannibal had had in mind when he followed her up the stairs.

Maybe, going forward, she would choose to believe that Abigail had in fact pushed her out of the closest thing to kindness that the girl had ever really known: perhaps Abigail hadn’t intended to kill her at all-- she simply hadn’t wanted _Hannibal_ to.

“Now get out of here,” Jack instructed roughly, because they had a begrudging tenderness to uphold. “Go on, go make up with whoever you’ve kept waiting all this time.”

Alana laughed as she backed away. “I’ll call you,” she said, and he nodded like he didn’t believe that she would, but he was smiling too.

She found Will in the parking lot, with both of her brothers. Andrew put an arm around her and she looked over his shoulder to his car, disappointed that Margot was not with him.

When he and Adam stepped away to give her and Will an illusion of privacy, she realized she did not know what to say to him.

“I wanted to check if it’s alright that I call by yours and get the dogs tonight. It’s been too long,” Will explained, visibly agitated, and although it was late, she understood completely: the dogs were Will’s only family, his only home, his anchor in moments like this when life was enough to overwhelm him.

She nodded and, raising her voice so Adam could hear her from where he stood, asked, “Can you take him?”

Adam nodded, and Will looked toward the car. “You’re not going home?”

“Not tonight,” she turned to Andrew and smiled. “I have a long drive to Delaware.”

An hour ago, they’d drank coffee together in Jack’s office and avoided talking about Hannibal. When Will handed her his cell phone, web browser open at a Tattle Crime article entitled, ‘ _The Monsters of Muskrat Farm’_ she wasn’t entirely sure whether to groan or laugh.

Will’s concern for Margot’s safety-- and she deemed it sincere, if a little belated-- was alleviated some by her explanation that Margot was no longer with her brother. She wasn’t sure who he was more impressed with: Margot, for the article, or her, for being the one who seemingly possesed her to leave.

“You couldn’t take Applesauce, could you?” Alana asked now. “Just for tonight, so Adam doesn’t have to stay with her.”

Will nodded. “Of course. I owe you a lot of dog-sitting, actually.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” She took a step back, closer to Andrew’s car, but hesitated as she did so. “I’ll call by and pick Applesauce up tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Will shrugged, then finally looked at her. “Alana...are you okay?”

“Not completely,” she admitted, and then she sighed. “But I will be. And so will you. We all will be.”

“I know. I know,” he said, and she knew he did believe her, but she couldn’t imagine how lost Will felt in that moment: to be back home, and feel like there was nothing familiar left.

In the car with Andrew, she still wasn’t able to relax. “I’m sorry I didn’t call very much.”

She hadn’t called Andrew at all, but she’d texted. The look he shot her told her that was a poor substitute, but they’d never been very good at speaking over the phone, even when they were in the same country.

“Yeah, well, you’re home now.” Andrew had a knack for making forgiveness sound like an imposition. “And it’s all over?”

“There’ll be a trial,” Alana explained. “Other than that-- yes, I suppose it is.”

But the dust hadn’t quite settled yet, and the finality of it all had not kicked in. In the morning, she would shower away all traces of Italy; someday within the next few weeks, her first thoughts upon waking would not be to check for news of Bedelia Du Maurier and she would come to forget the way Pazzi’s children had held onto each other as they cried for their father; maybe, a month from now, she would make the decision to finally sit down with Hannibal, or maybe she would decide conclusively that nothing good could possibly come from it.

What mattered was that she would not field calls from the FBI with talk of murders that had _The Chesapeake Ripper_ written all over them; that the reporters would finally turn their attention to the person who should be rightly vilified; that she could go to Abigail’s grave and kiss Margot’s scar and look herself in the mirror and honestly think, _I did all I could do to restore the balance for you._

When Andrew fell silent, his focus on the road ahead, she took out her phone and text Margot: _I can come to you, if you’ll have me._ Two and a half minutes passed before Margot replied: _Drive safe._

“Margot?” Andrew asked, when the latter message had her phone chiming. Alana turned to him, about to ask if she was _that_ obvious, when he shot her a look suggesting that yes, she most definitely _was._ “Your smile gave it away,” Andrew explained.

“Oh.” Alana felt her cheeks flush. “I really appreciate you looking out for her while I was gone.”

“I wouldn’t say I looked out for her,” Andrew corrected. “I think we both just needed a friend.”

Leave it to Margot to completely charm her brother-- Alana was equal parts amused and impressed. “That’s nice to hear; I’m glad you two get along.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure Margot would be open to making friends after I left.” Alana imagined they’d bonded over their resentments of her. “I hurt her, by leaving. I thought that maybe I’d just driven her to put up a stronger guard.”

“She knew you did what you had to do,” Andrew said. “We all knew that, even if we didn’t like it.” He glanced at her, for a fraction of a second, and then back to the road. “I’m sure she’ll give you just enough hell to put you off doing anything like that again, but she’ll get over it. She’s crazy about you.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Alana admitted quietly, for the first time aloud. “I can’t stand the thought of letting her down.”

Margot had had a shitty run of things, there was no disputing that, and all Alana wanted to do was help her make a future that was so far from what she’d had to experience in the past. Loving someone that much came with a significant amount of pressure.

“Alana, you couldn’t let her down if you _tried_.” Andrew sounded exasperated. “I know you think the world of her.”

“I _want_ the world for her,” Alana said softly. She wanted to stand back and watch Margot take on the world; she wanted to bear witness to her doing amazing things on her own merit; she wanted her to be the kind of happy she so ardently deserved, the kind of healthy that meant she cherished the good and overcame the bad in a way that wasn’t destructive.

Selfishly, she wanted it to be her Margot turned to to celebrate; she wanted it to be her arms that Margot fell into when things did go wrong. She wanted to be Margot’s constant, her safety-- a place where it would be impossible for her to forget that she was loved and wanted and that for everything that had happened, she was not alone. Even more selfishly, Alana wanted Margot to be all of this for her, too.

It was dark by the time they got to the house. Andrew dug around in his pocket for a spare key she imagined Nataliehad given to him while she unbuckled her seatbelt. “Call me,” he insisted firmly, and he waited until she nodded before handing her the key.

She squeezed his arm in thanks before getting out of the car. “Goodnight, Andrew.”

The light was on where she recalled the kitchen to be, and she wasn’t surprised, but her heart took to beating a little quicker all the same. She turned the key over in her hand twice until she bit her lip, stuck it in the lock and turned.

It was warmer inside that she’d expected it would be, and she was careful to shut the door quietly behind her. She toed off her shoes and contemplated calling out to Margot, thinking better of it on the off chance she had gone up to bed and simply left the light on for Alana’s benefit.

She was slipping out of her coat when she heard a door creak, and then her eyes met with Margot’s in the dimly lit hallway. Margot’s tentative steps toward her, the hesitation that flickered in her eyes before she thought to mask it with something unassuming, the awkward way her fingers tightened the ties of her silk dressing gown all conspired to stir up enough guilt in Alana that it was as if she’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Hi,” she said, hoping the warmth with which she spoke hid the regret. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Margot replied, and then she looked at the space they had yet to cross. “How did you get here?”

“Andrew picked me up.”

Margot folded her arms. “He didn’t tell me.”

“I think he wanted to lecture me himself first.” Alana let this hang between them, waiting. When Margot didn’t take her bait, she winced. “How mad are you?”

Margot took a step closer, and the way the light caught her eyes made her look so incredibly mischievous that Alana almost forgot that this was a tense moment. “That depends,” Margot mused.

Alana was intrigued, but then she always was by Margot. She hoped, secretly, that would never change. “On?”

“How apologetic _you_ are.”

Even when they were both barefoot Margot was taller, but only marginally. Alana let Margot’s arms close around her waist, leaned into the touch by stepping even closer, and in an instant brought her own arms up to wrap around Margot’s neck, pulling them together. She felt Margot’s hold on her tighten as she buried her face in Margot’s shoulder and whispered the apology she hadn’t expected she would really mean: “I’m sorry I had to leave you.”

A moment passed, and Margot tried to pull away, but Alana wouldn’t let her. “No,” she murmured, head turning so that her lips brushed with the skin on Margot’s neck. “You have to forgive me first.” It was childish and silly and ridiculous but it was also guaranteed to make Margot roll her eyes-- something she’d _actually_ missed--so Alana didn’t care. “I’m not going to let you go until you forgive me.”

“Then you’re not forgiven,” Margot said, a needle pricking Alana’s heart, and the implication affected her more than if Margot had genuinely been professing her intent to hold a grudge. “I’ll never forgive you.”

Alana lifted her head. “I wouldn’t let you go even if you did.” She hesitated just long enough to see Margot’s lips turn up at the ends-- a reluctant smirk-- and then she kissed her with every bit of strength she had left. They broke away too soon for breath, and Alana couldn’t help the noise of discontentment that escaped her when Margot dropped her arms-- a second later, it didn’t matter because Margot’s hands were taking hers and leading her upstairs, neither of them concerned with the kitchen light.

* * *

When Alana said she would have to go back and forth to Baltimore for hearings, Margot stiffened.

“How long will that take?” It was difficult to feel as if it was all over when it very obviously _wasn’t._ Margot had spent the last day telling herself that their lives would start over in the morning-- she hadn’t considered the logistics of Hannibal’s capture, and what that would mean for them going forward.

Alana, undressed now and laying next to Margot in bed, hitched herself up on her elbow. “Months, probably. Maybe a year; maybe more.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Margot knew it was not Alana’s fault, but that did not mean she had to accept it gracefully.

“Don’t be like that.” Alana slipped the band out of her plait so she could loosen it, running her fingers along the ways: Margot had forgotten she had a habit of toying with her hair when they were in bed together. “Why don’t you fill me in on what I missed?”

Margot had been waiting for that-- knew Alana was sure to question what had kept her so busy during their last few days apart. She was careful with her answer. “I’ve been continuing my therapy with Dr. Heimlich. I’m sure he’s told you.”

Alana brightened, and it was almost endearing to watch. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you had someone to talk to about everything.”

“We talk about you,” Margot said, curious as to what Alana would say in response-- the answer to this was a faint blush that rose on her cheeks, an eyebrow raised tentatively.

“Oh?” Alana’s lips pursed together in concentration about how to phrase what came next, “I wonder what you say.” It wasn’t _tell me,_ but it wasn’t _I don’t need to know,_ either.

“Dr. Heimlich thinks you did the right thing, for me, by putting distance between us," Margot told her. “He thinks that you have my best interests at heart; that you’re the best thing that could have possibly happened to me.”

The last part had Alana turning to her, blinking. “Heimlich said that?” she sounded unsure and displeased. She was probably thinking that she’d referred Margot to a psychiatrist who encouraged codependency.

“No,” Margot admitted lightly. “Actually, _I_ do.”

Once, Alana’s eyes on her after saying something so intimate might have made her uncomfortable, but not tonight-- Margot met them and waited until Alana smiled before she looked away.

“I think that probably works both ways,” Alana agreed. “I don’t know where either of us would be if you hadn’t tried to coerce me into helping you have your brother involuntarily committed.”

Margot had been half-hoping Alana would avoid mentioning Mason, but deep down, she knew the topic couldn’t be avoided for long. Alana was not ignorant, and she was certainly not obvlious. “About my brother,” Margot began flippantly, as Alana shifted closer to her. “I may have gone home to kill him while you were gone.”

There was silence for a long moment, but Alana did not seem horrified. Her eyes did not widen in surprise-- they stayed focused on the ends of Margot’s hair as she ran it through her fingers. When she looked up to Margot’s face, her expression was unreadable. “I suspected you might,” she said.

“You didn’t ask.” It still came too easy to her to divert the blame, but on this occasion, it was half-hearted. Even if Alana had asked, Margot could not say definitively that she would have told her the truth.

She thought Alana might respond with something scathing-- a _‘you didn’t tell me’_ that Margot would probably deserve. Instead, she watched Alana nod. “I don’t think I cared very much. You called me, and you sounded so lost, and in that moment, it didn’t matter to me what you’d done or tried to do.”

“You should have said: if I’d known you’d be so understanding, I might have taken advantage of that,” Margot replied, but Alana did not laugh.

“I mean it. That was all I wanted for you, from the very beginning: I wanted you to reach out like that. I wanted you to have someone you could call. Somewhere along the way, I wanted that person to be me.” Margot didn’t know what to say to that, so she just watched Alana carefully and waited. “Why didn’t you kill Mason?”

“I can’t think of anything that would kill him in a more painful and prolonged way than me leaving.” Margot shrugged. “He can’t win if he’s the only one playing the game.”

Alana nodded, content with her answer. “That, and you had a better idea for revenge, by the sounds of things.”

Margot contemplated feigning confusion, but then Alana looked up at her with a teasing smile and she knew she wasn’t _that_ annoyed about her involvement with Freddie Lounds. “Andrew told you?”

“Will checked her blog. _You_ could have told me, you know.”

“I knew you’d tell me not to do it.”

“Only because I wouldn’t have wanted you to subject yourself to that kind of scrutiny.” Alana’s chiding came from concern, and Margot knew this now, so she did not let herself strike out in defensiveness. “I know how ruthless Freddie can be.”

Margot supposed it was impossible to expect Alana to re-evaluate this now; she’d had her differences with Freddie long before Margot had come into her life. “She wasn’t awful with me,” Margot said, fairly. “Honestly, she could barely contain herself. I think she was starved of material to report on.”

“Mmm.” Alana didn’t sound incredibly convinced. “You timed it well, anyway. She broke just enough of the story without digging deep enough to affect you, and now Hannibal’s capture is sure to tie her up for the foreseeable future.”

“Things have a way of coming together,” Margot mused, and she wasn’t just talking about Freddie. She was thinking about their relationship; how, in hindsight, it had seemed to come at the perfect time. “What do people say? When God closes a door he opens a--” _window._ Margot broke off, eyelids slamming shut, smirk surfacing despite her wince. “That wasn’t a great expression. Nevermind.”

Margot knew Alana was trying desperately to sound affronted. “You’re not funny.”

“Your brother laughs at my jokes,” Margot told her, when she opened her eyes again.

“Oh, yes, he did imply that you two had formed an alliance.” Alana’s hands moved to her face, fingertips running along her jaw, and Margot wondered if she was learning her all over again.

“We had to do something while you were off catching a Cannibal.” Margot’s hands found their way around Alana, to press against her back. She drummed her fingers against scarred skin while cocooned in warmth and wondered, briefly, if everything that had come before had been a dream. Every memory felt too foggy, too far away: only Alana’s touch and her voice and her body felt vivid enough to be real.

“ _I_ didn’t catch him,” Alana said quietly, and the confliction she felt betrayed itself in her voice.

Margot didn’t want Alana to be disappointed-- not by anything, if she could help it, and certainly not in herself. She pressed their foreheads together, her breath on Alana’s face making her jump, just a little, and then smile.

“You caught me,” Margot hummed against her lips. “You caught me.”

Her words sprung tears in Alana’s eyes, and that was all wrong, because that wasn’t what Margot had intended. Before she could ask, Alana was blinking them away fiercely, but she hadn’t moved, hadn’t put distance between them.

“I never wanted to catch you,” Alana said in a whisper. “I was trying to set you free.” She looked stricken and hopeful at the same time, and Margot seriously wished they’d just skipped straight to sex. “Tell me that being with me isn’t just a more accommodating cage.”

“You know it isn’t.” Margot just managed to keep from rolling her eyes. “Neither of us would be here if we didn’t want to be.” They were both too stubborn for that.

“No.” Alana’s sigh came as a soft laugh, her eyes flickering to Margot’s lips. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You suppose?” Margot asked flatly. “Why? What’s _your_ ulterior motive?”

Alana laughed again, and it hitched as Margot surprised her by kissing her neck. She felt satisfaction in her fingertips, in the way they burned as they clung tighter to the woman in her arms, in her toes, in the way they curled at the sound. “No ulterior motive,” Alana said, hands cupping Margot’s face as their noses bumped. “Just you.”

Margot made sure her hands were supporting Alana’s back before she rolled over to pin her down. “Next time you take off,” Margot told a breathless, but giggling Alana, “you take me _with_ you.”

Alana pulled her down for another kiss, this one noticeably more passionate, hungrier, than the last. “I don’t think either of us are a flight risk anymore.”

Margot had to laugh at that-- because now she had invested in Mason’s rival company, she had a means of financing a much better escape: she would be damned if they stayed in Delaware. “Or, we could run away _together._ ”

She expected Alana to shoot this down automatically, but instead, she rested her head on the pillow, tilting it to the side innocently. “Honestly?” she said, “I'd like that more than anything.”


	32. She will be loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the beginning, this fic was and is very special to me, for a number of reasons, and to know that even just one person other than me has enjoyed it is all I ever hoped to achieve. I am so grateful for every single person who read, commented, left kudos or tracked me down on tumblr. I wish I could hug you all. I ardently hope nothing I've done along the course of this story has disappointed you. 
> 
> I'm sure this won't be the last you hear from me, and I would still love to hear from you. My tumblr (edit: vergerbloom) is always open (particularly during the upcoming season!) so feel free to stop by just to chat and requests/responses to prompts are very much negotiable as we edge closer to summer.

As it turned out, running away took time, planning and consideration, and it wasn’t quite as romantic as it immediately had seemed. It was December by the time they were anywhere near ready to leave-- not that Alana thought the extra time they had before things took a more permanent turn had been a waste. She supposed it just made them all the more ready to officially start their lives together.

Eight days after Hannibal was sentenced to life imprisonment with an indefinite stay at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane (a sentence that was to no one’s surprise, and to Chilton’s delight) Will Graham stopped by Alana’s house with the dogs.

She heard the barking over the sound of the car engine, and then Applesauce was losing her mind at the front door to get to the others. She opened it and set her loose, following her out onto the porch. She watched Will laugh as the dogs leapt through the snow to greet each other and she thought about friendship.

“Hi,” she said, shivering a little, as he took the steps to her porch. She folded her arms to save body heat and squinted. “Is Winston limping?”

“That’s my fault. We were fishing, and I took my eyes off the lure for just a second-- he’s always been crazy about live bait.” Will sighed, shaking his head. “He got the hook stuck in his paw, but the Vet removed it without having to put him under. He’s fine now, just tender still.”

“I imagine he’s playing it up a little for Applesauce,” Alana said, to which Will made a soft noise of agreement. “And the others?”

“They’re good.” He rubbed his hands together, turning to her with a smile that had not yet lost it’s sad edge. “They’re better now that I’m home all day. When we were going back and forth to court, I think it was strange for them. They always seemed surprised when I came back.”

“What matters is that you _did_ come back,” Alana reminded him. It had been four months since Italy-- seventeen weeks and four days, if she were to be exact-- and sometimes, Alana still woke in the early hours of the morning with something Inspector Pazzi had said to her ringing in her ears, his voice still perfectly preserved in her mind; once, she’d been in the supermarket when she was certain she saw Bedelia Du Maurier out of the corner of her eye, only for the woman to turn around and it be someone else enitrely.

It was the strange things, too-- the warmth of the Italian rain, the cinnamon scent of Pazzi’s car, the richness of the coffee they had all shared-- that stayed stuck in her mind.

There were worse things to be haunted by, she knew.

“I guess.” Will nodded towards Applesauce, laying on her back as one of the others sniffed her face. “How about her? Is she adjusting alright to you being back?”

Alana laughed. “I don’t think she noticed I’d left, to be honest.” Applesauce had taken a very obvious liking to Adam, however. “I can never quite tell if she’s remarkably adaptable or remarkably _oblivious_.”

Will turned to her, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “She should adjust to the move well then,” he said, in a pointed way, because Alana had not told him officially. She’d correctly assumed Jack would.

“I think she will. She’ll have even more space to run around and cause havoc.” Just thinking of the new house, in Kane County, Illinois made her smile. “You’d love it, too. Fields for miles, a country road, acres of forest.”

Will was staring at her, curious, but not suspicious. She couldn’t resent his concern anymore-- they’d been through too much; they’d _earned_ the right to worry about each other. “I didn’t think you’d want something so rural.” By ‘rural’, Alana knew Will meant ‘isolated.’

“It’s so peaceful and open and beautiful,” she explained softly. “You can hear yourself think. The land around the house is just uneven enough that you can see the porch light through the trees, so no matter how deep into the woods it you go, you're never really lost.”

It was also somewhere Mason and Cordell would never think to look, an address Hannibal would not know to send letters to. It was safe, and that alone had been enough of a selling point to Alana.

It was also a lot of the things Wolf Trap was, which was probably why Will did not seem so enamored by her description. He’d had too much quiet, maybe; too much space. It hadn’t proved itself safe enough for _him_.

“Sounds great,” he said, all the same. “Margot likes it, too, I take it?”

“Oh, yeah.” Alana had been sure to commit to memory the light in Margot’s eyes when the realtor left them alone in one of the upstairs bedrooms, the way she’d touched the window with her fingertips, as if she did not believe the glass really separated them from the valley behind the house. _All of this,_ she’d said, in a voice that made the hair on the back of Alana’s neck stand up on ends for all the right reasons, _would be ours--_ and right then and there any doubts festering in Alana’s mind were instantly eradicated. She knew it was not the magnitude of the house and land that captivated Margot-- it was still a far cry from Muskat farm-- but it was, in fact, all it symbolised: something she wouldn’t have to fight for, something no one could take away against her will, a blank slate where she could leave her mark. “She fell in love with it. She already has people working on levelling the land to a put a ranch together.”

Will laughed at that, genuinely amused. “I can’t quite imagine you running a horse ranch.”

Alana laughed too, and it amazed her how a year and a half ago she and Will had barely been able to hold eye contact with each other, and yet now they stood together on her porch steps, laughing about the future. “It’s Margot’s thing, not mine,” she clarified. “I’ll be teaching.”

“University of Chicago, right?” Will asked, and she nodded. His smile was soft; he was happy for her. “Good for you.”

It was a fair commute (just over an hour each way) considering the time she would actually spend teaching, but Alana didn’t mind. Initially, they’d looked at apartments in the city, to be closer to the University -- thinking a radical change might be what they needed-- but the streets were too loud and time seemed to pass too quickly there.

“It’s only a temporary post-- covering someone’s maternity leave for a year or so, but who knows what could come of it. And even if I don’t get something permanent there, I’ll find something else.” Alana knew employer’s minds would grow foggier as more years passed: her name might always conjure up a discussion about Hannibal Lecter, but perhaps someday she would be known to someone as one of the ones who had helped to capture him, and not the woman who’d fallen for him.

“I’m sure Margot will find you something to do, if you’re stuck,” Will said. Then, he shrugged. “I heard Georgetown wanted you back.”

“Out of courtesy, I think,” Alana admitted. “It’s not that I’m not grateful,” she insisted, because ‘residually bitter’ was a more accurate description, “but my reference for them came from Hannibal-- that place is tainted, too. The people there, and the way they look at me, it’s not the same.”

Will nodded, the kind of understanding in his eyes she wouldn’t get from anyone else. “I don’t think it will be the same anywhere, for any of us, again.”

“No, probably not.” She did not need Will Graham to tell her that she was chasing an idyllic illusion of a life; that she could never _really_ befree from what had happened-- but it was easy to get lost in dreams when she’d found herself in nightmares for so long. “So. What’s next for you?”

“I’m thinking of leaving too, actually,” Will said. He looked off, toward the dogs. “Florida. Marathon, maybe.”

“What’s in Florida?” Alana asked. “What’s in Marathon?”

Will smiled, but did not turn to look at her. “Nothing,” he admitted, a hint of something rebellious about his tone. “Absolutely nothing but long stretches of sea and sand.”

“The dogs would love that.” Alana watched Winston lick his paw, Applesauce curled up at his side, the others a blur of tails and floppy ears, sunken into the snow. “What would you do there?”

“Fix boat motors, I guess,” Will said, with a shrug. “I’ve always been good at that. Long before any of this, I used to do it just to keep myself busy, but I could make money from it if I needed to.”

“Sounds like it would be really good for you,” Alana agreed-- _therapeutic, even,_ but of course she did not add that. “Have you told Jack?” When Will nodded, a little grimly, she asked, “What did he say?”

Will turned to her on the edge of a laugh. “I imagine it wasn’t much different from whatever he said to you when you told him you were leaving the FBI to run a ranch in Illinois with Margot Verger.”

“I didn’t tell him about the ranch, actually,” Alana admitted, wincing. “His reaction to me going back to teaching was enough.” It had been a passive-aggressive, _‘If it’s what you want, I respect that, but you know as well as I do you’re wasted in a damn classroom.’_ “I thought I’d spare us both the disapproval.”

Jack had been surprisingly more accepting of Margot. Alana hadn’t been going out of her way to hide it, but she hadn’t made plans to tell him, either, until a rough day in court had meant she no longer had to do either. It was just after her testimony, and emotions had been running high and tensions freyed: to be asked horrible, intrusive questions was one thing-- to have to look into the eyes of the man who was visibly relishing it was another. She left the courtroom early, too upset to sit between Jack and Will and pretend everything was fine, and out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jack rising to go after her, but of course Margot beat him to it. When Jack found her in the hallway during a recess fifteen minutes later, laughing about the defense attorney’s suit with her head on Margot’s shoulder, he nodded curtly with a knowing look and then quietly backed away, hands in pockets.

He had since joked about being distracted in Italy when he supposed she had been dropping hints, about how Alana never failed to surprise him. On the one occasion he had gotten serious with her about it, she’d immediately tensed, because she expected his judgement but still had not quite learned how to accept it with grace.

“Just be--” he began, and then she cut him off.

“ _\--careful_ ,” Alana interrupted, with a smile she had to force around the sigh she was stifling. “I know, Jack. I will be. You too.”

“I was actually going to tell you to be happy,” he corrected, matter-of-factly. “I know you can handle yourself; if you say she’s nothing like her brother, I believe you-- but I also know you’re going to do whatever you damn well please no matter what I say. If it’s the only thing I’ve ever told you that you pay any attention to, then let it be this: just be _happy,_ Alana.”

She’d blinked at him then, because the Jack Crawford she knew did not give that kind of advice. His explanation had been simple, but enough to have a lump forming in her throat. “If someone had told me years ago how things with Bella would have turned out, I would have loved her anyway. Risks like that are worth the hell that comes as a consequence. You’ve been careful enough; now, you deserve to be happy.”

When she’d insisted he keep in touch, he fixed her with a very stern look. “Don’t you think I won’t fight to have the Bureau take you on again if you ever ask me to; don’t you think there isn’t a place for you here; don’t think you can’t come back.”

“That was wise of you,” Will murmured now, and Alana imagined Jack had been a little less kind when it came to him leaving-- he’d never been very good at letting Will go.

“He’ll be alright,” Alana reasoned, and she wasn’t even trying to convince herself, because she genuinely believed it. “Price and Zeller will keep an eye on him. They promised to threaten alcohol screening if they think he’s drinking too much.”

Will didn’t laugh at the joke (and it was a joke, because Jack was no fool-- he knew how lucky he was to have his job back, there was no way he would throw it away now) and instead shook his head. “It’s not just Jack.”

“What else?” The haunted way he looked at her was the only answer she needed. “Abigail?”

“It doesn’t feel right leaving without her.” The way he looked down, quickly, implied Will knew exactly how ridiculous this sounded.

“Freddie will take care of the grave,” Alana said gently. She knew this, because she’d already been assured of it.

Freddie had appeared at the house in Delaware one Sunday morning, and Alana’s immediate instincts had her telling her blankly that she had no interest in giving a comment regarding Hannibal. Then, Freddie’s widened eyes had fallen on Margot and it became clear she had not even expected Alana to be there.

She’d come with the intention to warn Margot that Cordell was burning through her father’s money and that, in turn, Mason seemed to be burning through Cordell’s patience, to which Margot laughed and then laughed again. When Freddie realized they were in the middle of packing, she asked where they were going. Alana’s response was frosty, yes-- a simple ‘Illinois’ without offering additional details or reason-- but understandably wary.

“Well, good luck,” Freddie replied, and then, on the doorstep, she turned to Alana and promised to visit Abigail’s grave with flowers as often as she could. “I buy nicer flowers than Will does,” she said, by way of explanation for something which afforded such a sudden change in the air between them, but Alana knew what Freddie was really promising: _I’ll never forget her, either._

“It’s not just the grave,” Will said. “I just can’t keep from thinking that if she was here, she’d be going with one of us, or she’d be in college.” Alana knew it was a waste of breath to argue that it was much more likely Abigail would be in a hospital, that she might never have been able to recover enough from what she’d been through to live alone. “It’s like we’re leaving her behind.”

“I think we’re leaving a lot of things behind,” Alana agreed. She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t think Abigail is one of them-- not really.” Even if they had wanted to forget, Alana didn’t think they would ever be able to.

They could only really leave places and people who were living-- not memories and ghosts.

“No,” Will said, as Margot pulled into Alana’s driveway and the dogs began to bark to alert them. “You’re right. She’s not.”

Margot got out of the car and slammed the door shut, mumbling something that was probably a curse under her breath as the dogs swarmed to her. She had one eyebrow raised as she approached them.

“Good afternoon,” she said evenly, but Alana could tell she’s wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Will. She eyed him very cautiously, with tight lips. “Did something happen?”

“I just came around to say goodbye,” Will explained, taking a step backwards. Alana did the same, and Margot took advantage of this freeing of space to come and stand beside her. “Actually,” Will said, looking toward the house, “I was wondering if you needed any help moving things?”

“No,” Margot said blankly. “Alana’s brothers took care of all of that.”

“We appreciate the thought,” Alana added, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “I would invite you in, but I’ve been packing up the last of it all morning and the place would be classified as a hazard.”

“It’s fine.” Will shook his head. “I should get going, anyway.” He didn’t have an excuse ready, but then he didn’t really need one. It was enough that he had stopped by; he was under no obligation to stay.

“I’m glad you came,” Alana said, and she instigated the hug that came next. She’d forgotten what it felt like to hold him, it had been so long; she held him just long enough to be reminded of the fact he’d lost weight.

When they stepped back, he turned to Margot, who quickly folded her arms to avoid something similar. Will looked between them. “You’ll take care of each other?” It sounded awkward, out of place, but Alana understood what he meant: _I’m glad you’re together; I hope you’ll be okay._ She knew the fact it had been phrased as a request wouldn’t bode well with Margot, however, so she nodded for both of them and laughed. “I’ll look out for Jack, for as long as I’m here,” Will added.

“Look out for _you_ ,” Alana insisted firmly. “Jack can take care of himself.”

Will nodded and began backing away, most of the dogs taking the initiative to circle the car.

“You’ll have to come out and see the place once we’re all set up,” Alana said, knowing full well he wouldn’t. “We’ll keep in touch.”

“Sure we will,” Will said, as insincere but well-meaning as Alana had been. He turned his back to them and unlocked the car, setting about getting the dogs settled inside. He waved once as he pulled out of the driveway.

Margot groaned as the car disappeared and Applesauce began to bark. “Why did you invite him to visit? I can’t think of anything more awkward.”

“We all know he won’t come,” Alana said, patting her legs to encourage Applesauce to join them on the porch. “He’s going to Florida.”

“Florida?” Margot sounded as repulsed as Alana expected. “Why?”

“The same reason we’re going to Illinois,” Alana explained, leaning down to scratch the dog’s damp ears as she panted at her feet, “because it isn’t _here_.”

“Well, obviously-- but _Florida?_ ” Margot pulled a face. Then, she seemed to brighten. “He’ll be too far away to visit even if he wanted to.”

“I’ll give him a call, when we’re settled, just to check in. We’ll take it from there.” She knew Will was a sore spot for Margot: she was more secure in their relationship now, and so it was not a matter of jealousy, but he was still a reminder of what how desperate she had been, how far she had been willing to go for power when she was at her most powerless and what had been done to her. Aside from her reservations about Will’s feelings towards Hannibal despite the hand he’d played in Mason’s horrific actions, Alana suspected Margot also harboured some embarrassment, even if she would never admit it.

It was easier for her to cut him off, considering they had not had much of a relationship beyond the baby he had unintentionally helped her to conceive. If not for Alana, she may never had spoken to him again.

“We can exchange Christmas cards,” Margot muttered, begrudgingly. “If he finds someone who can tolerate his dogs, we’ll go to the wedding.”

“I’m not sure we’d be invited,” Alana reasoned. “I mean, that would be more awkward than him visiting us, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Margot said, “but the difference is there would be an abundance of alcohol at a wedding reception.”

“Enough.” Alana rolled her eyes and tugged Margot inside, Applesauce running ahead. “Come and make yourself useful.”

They’d moved most of the furniture out the previous day, and so it was just a matter of packing smaller things into boxes, which they managed largely without incident-- although Margot did comment that Alana was probably a hoarder and that she wished she’d known that before co-signing on the mortgage agreement for their new home.

“Tough luck,” Alana mused, twisting the cork-screw in a bottle of wine she’d found as she cleared out her fridge. She leaned against the kitchen counter where Margot sat, legs crossed, as she balanced a cardboard box in her lap and folded the sides down. “There’s no getting away from me now.”

“Hmm,” Margot said, around the sellotape between her teeth.

Alana unpacked two coffee mugs from one of the other boxes, earning a glare from Margot that she met with a sweet smile and a peck on the cheek. “We’ll stay here tonight. We can finish properly in the morning.”

She knew how eager Margot was to get moving, but Alana had no intention on setting out on a cross-country drive this late in the evening, particularly when it was sure to snow heavily again. Even now, driving in icy conditions made her think of her parents and re-consider.

“Fine-- but you’re taking the first shift driving,” Margot muttered, running her finger along the sellotape to press it in place and force the seal. “And the second. And maybe the third, depending on how bad the traffic is.”

“You’re really too kind.” Alana poured wine into both mugs before handing Margot the one filled with just a little more. “Are you hungry? We could order something.”

Margot put both the cardboard box and the mug to one side and reached for Alana’s hand, pulling her to stand in front of her. Her thighs brushed with Alana’s waist as she shifted forward. “If I told you food was the last thing on my mind,” Margot mused, licking her lips as her hands fixed the collar of Alana’s blouse, “what would you say?”

Alana took a sip of wine and pretended to think. “I’d say that you’re lucky I’m already in love with you, because you are positively atrocious at flirting.”

Margot did not stop herself from laughing, and it was beautiful to Alana: she’d come to learn that Margot was free in all of the ways that mattered.

“You haven’t said you love you me before now,” Margot pointed out, taking Alana’s mug and taking a sip from it, despite the fact her own was right next to her. She pulled a face. “That tastes terrible. I don’t want to know how much money you wasted on that bottle.”

“It was a _present_ ,” Alana clarified, while she tried to think of how to respond to The Other Thing.

“Let me guess-- Andrew?”

“Oh, no, Andrew gives gift cards and terrible jewelry, remember?” Alana yawned and took the mug back from Margot. “Adam is the one who buys wine. He doesn’t even like it, he just thinks I do, and I never bothered to tell him any different.”

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” They were having a pre-Christmas that weekend, at the new house, because her brothers would be there to help them move everything in anyway. It meant they wouldn’t have to fly or drive back for the real thing a week later-- they could devote their time to getting settled properly and, more importantly, they could spend the day in bed like they wanted to.

“Pretty much.” She looked into the mug, thinking it strange that the wine was described as white, when really it was clear, transparent. “Why? Having second thoughts?” She smiled, as if it were a joke, but there was a small part of her that could not completely guarantee Margot’s response.

“You’re too smart to be seriously asking me that.” When Alana looked up, Margot was frowning. “What would my second thoughts be about? Your family or moving?”

Alana shrugged. “I don’t know. All of it. _Me._ ” She put her mug to rest beside Margot’s and linked their hands together. “I know this is a pretty big leap from where we both were at the start of the year. It’s easy to get caught up in it. I just don’t want you to feel like we’re moving too quickly.”

Margot pulled her hands away, and Alana felt her chest tighten, but then Margot was rolling her eyes and her hands were framing her cheeks instead. “Is this because Mason called?”

It had happened while they were in Illinois the first time, while Alana was attending her interview at the University. She’d come back to the hotel to find Margot pacing the length of their room with her cell phone in her hand. It had taken a near two hour drive in their rental car to calm her down, and by then it was only because they were hopelessly lost and so her mind was distracted. Alana wasn’t sure Margot had slept at all that night. The next morning, she woke to find Margot cross-legged in bed beside her with a local newspaper in her lap, circling available listings she’d calculated they could afford.

It was four days before Margot finally told her what he’d said on the phone. Mason offered to make her CEO of the business empire; he’d promised an endless supply of money. Even with the success of the rival company, their father’s wealth accumulated to billions, and he claimed he wanted nothing more than to share that with her.

His condition was that this was a strictly two-way bargain; he did not want Alana to be involved in any way whatsoever. He’d gone on to imply that Cordell could see to that, once and for all, if Margot thought she might struggle.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Alana had told her, as they lay spooned together in bed after the revelation.

“I’m afraid of what I would do to him if he hurt you,” Margot replied darkly, and there was such a coolness in her voice that Alana knew anyone in their right mind would take that moment to flinch away.

Instead, she pressed closer, and the next day, they made an offer on the place in Kane County.

She did the same now, leaning into the touch. “We’ll be dealing with him for the rest of our lives, I expect. I don’t care about that.”

“Don’t say that,” Margot muttered. “An infection is sure to get to him eventually. Or else Cordell will tire of asking for an allowance and take matters into his own hands.”

“Let me finish,” Alana pressed gently. She looked at Margot with eyes that never tired of taking in every inch of her face. “So what if he calls every six months trying to entice you back? So what if Cordell makes a few empty threats? Cordell can’t touch us, thanks to you and Freddie, and everyone else Mason had either left the second the business started to fail or is locked up in an Italian prison indefinitely.”

The laying of it all out like that earned a satisfied smirk that Alana had to bite her lip to keep from kissing. “We didn’t even plan that,” Margot murmured, low and smug.

“No. We didn’t.” Alana gave another small shrug. “Imagine the hell we could cause if we were trying.”

It was amusing to joke about, but nothing more: neither of them were prepared to waste their lives in search of revenge. They had too many dreams to chase, too many plans to make.

“Mason, Hannibal, Cordell...they’ll always be in our lives, even when they aren’t--even if they _were_ dead. But that doesn’t need to be a constant reminder of what they did; it _should_ be a remind of what we survived, of what we’re _capable_ of surviving.” Alana tilted her head. “When you think of it like that, don’t you think it’s remarkable?”

There was a pause. Margot’s eyes sparkled. “I think _we’re_ remarkable,” she agreed.

Alana did not intend to minimise the gravity of their situation. Shaking her head, she began to voice solutions, “We’ll block Mason’s number. We’ll buy a gun and the first thing we’ll do when we get settled is invest in the best home security system. We could even find some way to swing a restraining order, if you want. All of that, it’s nothing to what we’ve already done.” Alana pressed their foreheads together, and her hands slipped under Margot’s shirt to squeeze her sides gently, the warmth of her skin enough to have desire stirring inside Alana. “ _We_ won Margot. What do they have, in comparison to this?”

Margot stroked a strand of Alana’s hair back from her face. “I feel like I won.” She didn’t instigate a kiss, like Alana expected, however. There was something in her eyes that told Alana she wasn’t quite finished. “You said _our_ whole lives,” Margot said quietly, after a long pause.

Alana rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t buy houses with just _anyone_.”

The first brush of Margot’s lips against her own in moments like these still gave her goosebumps, and Alana took that as the universe’s confirmation that she was exactly where she was supposed to be-- as if she’d really needed a second opinion. When the kiss deepened, Alana’s eyes flickered shut. She opened them again only when they both stopped to breathe, and then Margot was moving to kiss her neck, legs wrapping around Alana’s waist, and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, but only under the sound of her own laughter.

They made love on the floor of her living room, and they lay there, under a blanket she’d originally put for Applesauce, until her back hurt and they started to feel the draught that found it’s way in under the front door. Margot disappeared for a few minutes and came back with more blankets thrown over her arm (that she’d obviously opened more boxes to get) and Alana’s painkillers.

After another trip to the kitchen, she handed Alana one of the mugs of wine, lukewarm by now, and nodded for her to take it with her pills. “I love it when you play nurse,” Alana joked, and then the combination almost made her gag.

Margot pressed a kiss to her shoulder and fixed the blankets tighter around them. “I love _you_ ,” she said, mumbled just loud enough for Alana to hear.

Alana smiled. “I know.” She handed her the second mug of wine and then held her own up. “To us.”

“To us,” Margot agreed, her lips still moving against Alana’s skin as she spoke.

“To being proud of ourselves,” Alana said, because she _was_ proud of them: proud of herself, for not giving up when it would have been easy to, and proud of Margot, for giving up on a life that hadn’t been easy to leave at all.

“To being brave,” Margot added, and Alana supposed they had been-- and were still very much being-- incredibly brave. Courage had led them to each other, had tied them together, had sparked them to start a new life away from the madness.

They spent the best part of the night like that, toasting all of the wonderful things and kissing away thoughts of the not-so-wonderful. When they ran out of warm, bitter wine to drink, they sat by the window and watched the snow fall outside, Applesauce’s soft snores the only sound in the room but their even breathing, the occasional whisper, and the laughter that almost always ensued.

Even after everything, there was no greater feeling than loving, and letting themselves be loved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> I hope you have a lovely, safe summer and all your season 3 wishes are fulfilled!


End file.
